


Denerim Confidential

by nlans



Series: Denerim Noir (An Urban Fantasy AU) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detective Noir, Detectives, F/M, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 104,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9445127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: An elf, a dwarf, and a mage walk into a bar ...Tabris Investigations isn't going to make them rich, but it lets Naia Tabris and Juliet Hawke get by in the corrupt city of Denerim, where elves like Naia are barely tolerated and mages like Juliet have to hide their magic or pledge themselves to the Department of Magi.Then an ill-fated night out brings them a case that could change everything. Someone tried to kill Alistair Guerrin, the adopted son of a Denerim councilman, and he thinks they're the only ones he can trust. But can Naia and Juliet help Alistair when they have secrets of their own to protect?*************An urban fantasy AU. Updates Tuesdays.





	1. Chapter 1

Juliet glanced at her watch. The bartender noticed.

“He’s late?”

“She,” Juliet said absently. “My best friend.”

“Ah. Figures. I mean, no one would want to keep you waiting. If it were a date, I mean, a man would be stupid to be late … er. You know what, I’m just going to go wash some glasses over there,” the bartender said, blushing a bit.

Juliet found herself smiling at him—he was cute, despite the verbal fumbling. “Naia’s chronically late. I love her anyway.” Juliet herself was obsessively punctual, but it was hard to be mad at Naia. She always had a good reason—and she always showed up eventually.

Sure enough, twenty seconds later the door burst open to reveal a red-haired elf dressed in jeans and a puffy coat, a messenger bag slung across her body and her pale cheeks pink with the Denerim winter cold. “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry!”

“Not to worry. I just got here,” Juliet said. It actually wasn’t a lie. She’d learned that if Naia said eight, she would arrive no earlier than eight-thirty. Eight-forty-one wasn’t bad.

Naia sighed, pulled her messenger bag over her head, tore off her coat, and thumped down onto the bar stool next to Juliet’s. “You would not _believe_ the day I had.” Belatedly, she peeled off her gloves and dropped them on top of her bag.

“A brass knuckles kind of day, apparently,” Juliet said, noting the pattern of bruises on Naia’s right hand.

“Shianni called. Some humans were hanging out near her shelter and harassing the people staying there—pushing them around for fun, throwing a few punches if anyone protested.” Naia flashed a grin at the bartender. “Lemon drop, please!”

The bartender smiled back—you kind of couldn't help it when Naia smiled at you—and busied himself mixing vodka and lemon juice. Naia turned back to Juliet. “So, of course …”

“You went to the shelter. You walked in and out until they picked a fight with you. They got violent, you returned the favor, and now they’re missing some teeth.”

“You know me too well.” Naia brightened visibly as the bartender slid her drink towards her. “Thanks!” She pushed some battered bills across the bar to cover the tab.

Juliet shook her head and sipped her single-malt. “You know assault is illegal, I assume.”

“ _I_ know it. Whether the _Guard_ knows it is another matter. Shianni filed _three_ reports! Oh, wait, I forgot. Now that you’re gone, the Guard doesn’t give half a damn about elves.” Naia scowled. Most people would have thought the frown was just a temporary blip in Naia’s cheerful temperament, but Juliet knew better. That diamond-bright smile belonged to a _very_ angry woman.

You couldn’t pay attention in Denerim and _not_ be angry.

“You know I’d go with you on these kinds of things, right?” Juliet asked.

Naia shook her head. “No way, Hawke. It’s one thing if I get arrested, but if _you_ get arrested …”

Juliet sighed. “Yeah. I know.” _They might figure out I'm a mage. Yay._

“Right. And then I’d have to find a new partner and I just don’t have time for that right now,” Naia said, finishing her unspoken thought. “Besides, I barely broke a sweat on this one. I even let them keep all their teeth. That’s good, right?”

“I’m proud of you, Naia Tabris,” Juliet said, only half-ironically. “So. Why did it absolutely have to be _this_ bar, all the way across town from my nice warm apartment on this lousy evening?” It wasn’t a bad bar, as bars went, but it didn’t strike Juliet as anything special—cute bartender aside.

Naia arched an eyebrow and pointed across the room. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Juliet noticed _it._

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Come _on._ You never do it!”

“That’s because you always promise me you’ll pick something slow and easy to sing, and then I wind up standing there trying to keep up with some squeaky-voiced diva. No karaoke and that’s final!”

Naia pouted, her eyes wide and her lip trembling ever-so-slightly. It was a look that should have broken hearts.

Juliet started laughing. “You’re the worst. No. But if _you_ want to make an idiot out of yourself I’ll happily watch.”

“Hawke. It’s me. When have I ever _not_ wanted to make an idiot out of myself?”

* * *

By nine-thirty almost every seat in the bar was full—apparently Naia wasn’t the only person in Denerim who thought it might be fun to beat the cold with bad singing and booze. Naia was now on the stage for the second time. She’d taken her first turn with a group of university students, all male, who had recruited her to sing the female vocals on a cheesy-but-classic duet. This time it was just Naia, hamming it up as she sang along to a fast-paced pop song. She’d gotten the other patrons clapping to the song’s beat. That was Naia for you. Juliet was rather proud that she’d resisted Naia’s begging this time. 

The door opened just as Naia reached the bridge, admitting a blast of frozen air, a small flurry of ice, and a dwarf in a battered leather coat. Instead of keeping up with the music, Naia paused and pointed towards the entrance. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, forgive the interruption, but something very exciting just happened. Please direct your attention to the man who just walked into this bar. You know him as the bestselling author of _Hard in Hightown_ and the just-released _Hightown Confidential._ The man, the legend, Varric Tethras! Get up here, Varric.”

Varric didn’t even take off his coat before leaping to Naia’s side. “You’ll have to sing the high notes, Sparks.”

“Just try to keep up,” Naia said, tossing him a second microphone as the bridge wound to a close.

Juliet shook her head, smiling, as the two of them launched into the song’s final verse, swaying back and forth to the beat.

“Not one for karaoke?”

Long years of practice enabled Juliet not to jump out of her seat. In fact, she didn’t even turn around, which she thought was rather slick of her. “Why, Detective. Please, do interrupt my evening out with my friends.” She gestured towards Naia’s abandoned seat.

The elven detective sat, making no more noise than he had sneaking up on her. He brushed a bit of snow from the shoulder of his black wool coat. “Just thought I’d say hello. But please, if I’m unwelcome, tell me to go.”

Juliet gave him a flat stare. “Would it do any good if I did?”

“It might.” The detective’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Oh, let’s just get this over with. What can I do for you, Detective Leto?” Juliet leaned back in her seat and sipped her drink, which was mostly melted ice now. She quietly gave thanks that she hadn’t ordered a second. She needed to be on her toes with this one.

Detective Fenris Leto was one of the Guard’s rising stars, a Tevinter immigrant with a disturbing life story that the local papers gleefully recounted every time he made a collar. His silver hair and lyrium tattoos had been the result of a Tevinter magister’s experiment. A sick experiment, but a successful one if his ability to rip out peoples’ hearts was any indication. He was known around the Guard for being a fierce supporter of Councilwoman Meredith Stannard, and absolutely single-minded about mages and magic. Juliet found it more than a little hypocritical that he was willing to lock up people with far less dangerous abilities than his own.

Also, it was completely unfair that someone who hated magic so much had those looks and that _voice_. It felt like half the people in the bar were staring at him. Juliet couldn’t blame them.

The detective pulled off his gloves and tucked them away in a pocket. “I was hoping to speak to your friend up there, in fact.”

Warning bells went off in Juliet’s head. _Did those creeps at the shelter file charges?_ “Oh, really?” she said, faking nonchalance as best she could. “Well, the song is almost done. You should know that she’s very shy these days, though. Won’t say anything without Varric in the room. You’re lucky you caught them together.”

The song ended; Naia and Varric took sweeping bows before handing the microphones off to a group of giggling women who looked just a bit too young for this bar. Juliet made eye contact with Naia and shook her head slightly, trying to warn her off, but Naia practically bounced back to the table when she realized Juliet had company.

“Detective _Leto_! What a nice surprise,” she said, pulling over a nearby chair. “Look who’s joining us, Varric. You two should sing a duet.”

“Not a good idea, Sparks. We wouldn’t want _all_ of the women in the place swooning,” the dwarf drawled. 

“And many of the men,” Juliet added. “Don’t limit your appeal, Varric.”

Varric grinned at her. “Excellent point as usual, Hawke. So, what does Mr. Congeniality here want?” He gave Leto an unfriendly look. The message was clear: _you’re in my seat. Scram._

Leto ignored Varric’s sarcasm. “Miss Tabris. Would you mind if we talked for a moment?” Juliet waited for him to get out his notebook, but it stayed hidden.

“Of course not,” Naia replied. “Varric might, though. Lawyers are so _fussy_ about these things.” She flashed him a smile.

Detective Leto did _not_ smile back. “I understand you’ve had an interesting afternoon.”

Naia gave him her most innocent, puzzled look. “A fairly usual one, actually,” she said, idly examining a hangnail. “Why do you ask?”

“Just out of curiosity, naturally,” the detective said dryly. “I also noticed that a couple of humans were taken to the hospital in the alienage after they ran into trouble outside your cousin’s shelter. But of course, you don’t know anything about that.”

“I’m going to direct my client not to respond to your insinuations, Detective,” Varric interrupted.

“Very wise of you,” Leto said with a nod.

“What brought you to the alienage hospital, Detective? I was under the impression that you avoided our grimy little corner of the city. Did you lose your way?” Naia asked sweetly.

Leto’s face twisted with distaste. Juliet recognized that expression—Naia was right but he didn’t want to admit it. “I’ve been placed in charge of a new task force on crime in the alienage.”

“So from now on, Shianni can call you when someone shows up at her shelter black-and-blue and terrified?” Naia said. “Detective, that’s just _lovely_ of you to take an interest. It’s almost as if the Guard is considering enforcing the law for crimes against elves!”

Hawke smothered a laugh. Leto’s face darkened. “Things are about to change in the guard, Miss Tabris. I assume you heard about our new Guard Captain?”

Naia shrugged. “Heard there was one. Don’t know anything about him.”

“Her. Aveline Vallen,” Juliet said. “Hired out of Highever. Councilman Guerrin swears she runs a clean Guard.” She snorted softly. “Of course, the Council said that about the last four Guard Captains.”

“Do you think it’s us driving them bad?” Naia mused. “Or do they just start that way?”

Leto sighed. “Believe it or not, Miss Tabris, Guard corruption cuts both ways. There are more than a few patrolmen who’ve made sure that reports about _you_ go unnoticed. But Guard Captain Vallen doesn’t strike me as the type to allow favors for anyone. As someone who has admired certain aspects of your, er, work, I’m advising you to stay on the right side of the law from now on. And call me the next time someone gives your cousin trouble.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and slid it towards Naia. She took it with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t tear it in half, as Juliet almost expected her to do.

“I appreciate the warning, Detective,” Naia said, sliding the card into the pocket of her jeans. Her voice actually sounded sincere.

Leto nodded his head. “Miss Tabris. Miss Hawke. Counselor Tethras. Have a good evening.” He stood and slipped away, his boots barely making any noise against the floors as he walked.

“Nice seeing you!” the dwarf called after him. The elf gave a slight wave, but didn’t turn around.

“I cannot believe you slept with that guy, Hawke,” Varric muttered as he sat down.

“ _Thank_ you, Varric. I’d almost repressed that memory,” Hawke growled.

“I can believe it,” Naia said, watching the silver-haired elf depart. “He has his moments—like now, for example. That was actually decent of him. Besides, he’s messed up but he’s hot. Three drinks into a solstice party and I’d have slept with him too.”

It had only taken two drinks, but Juliet decided not to correct her friend. She wondered if the night would have ended the same way if Naia had been at that party instead of her—if the detective would still have slipped out at two in the morning after telling Naia that sleeping with her had been a horrible mistake.

“Your taste in men baffles me, Sparks,” Varric said. “That one’s so covered in spikes he’s like an angsty porcupine.”

“Mmm. Irresistible,” Naia said playfully. “Another round?”

“Whiskey,” Varric said—predictably, for it was his usual order.

“I’m good,” Hawke said with a little wave.

Naia nodded and leapt up to get the bartender’s attention. She returned only a moment later, emptyhanded.

“Hey, where’s my drink?” Varric said with a mock scowl.

“Coming. The bartender was backed up, said he’d bring it over. Ah, here we go.”

A triple whiskey and a lemon drop were quickly lowered to the table. “Thanks, kid. What do I owe you?” the dwarf asked, turning his attention to the bartender.

“On the house, if I can get your autograph,” the bartender replied. He pulled a battered paperback copy of _Hard in Hightown_ from the back pocket of his jeans.

Varric’s eyes lit up. “A fan! Sure, kid. Who do I make this out to?”

“Alistair.”

Varric pulled a pen from his pocket and scrawled something in the front cover before handing it back to the bartender. Naia couldn’t see what he’d written, but whatever it was, it made the bartender laugh. “Thanks. Maybe next time I can get you to sign _Hightown Confidential_ for me.”

“Remind me to tip that guy generously,” the dwarf said as Alistair returned to his post, the book tucked carefully under his arm. “Good taste in literature should be encouraged.”

* * *

The three of them sat drinking and talking—and, occasionally, singing—for another hour, watching the parade of karaoke singers become progressively more drunk as the evening went on. Several more people came up to the table to tell Varric that they loved _Hard in Hightown_. That had been what Naia wanted, of course. Varric was always subdued after visiting his brother in the asylum. Naia had hoped this would cheer him up: alcohol, awkward singing, and _Hard in Hightown_ fans. It seemed to be working.

Naia downed the last of her drink and gave Hawke a hopeful smile. “Juli-eeeeeeeet.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeease?” Naia begged. “I’ll pick a slow song. Something you know.”

“No, she won’t,” Varric warned.

“Okay, no, I won’t. But it will be fun!” Naia said.

Juliet’s scathing reply was cut short when someone fired a gun into the ceiling.

Instinctively, the three of them dove below the table. The karaoke soundtrack continued in the background, but it was mostly drowned out by the sound of screaming.

Naia leaned out to try and get a good look. A medium-sized figure—probably human, though it was hard to tell under the heavy coat—was holding a pistol in his right hand. A dark scarf concealed the bottom half of his face, but his voice was absolutely clear.

“Everyone shut up!”

A second gunshot silenced the screaming.

“Much better.” Slowly, the gunman extended his weapon and pointed it at the bartender. “Cash from the till. Now.”

“All right. Let’s go easy on the shooting. You’ll get your money,” the bartender said. He sounded much calmer than Naia would have expected. _Not the first time someone’s pointed a gun at him?_

“I said _now!_ ” The robber advanced on the bar, his gun still leveled directly at the bartender’s head. Only then did Naia notice a second robber, dragging a table in front of the door to prevent any escape through the front.

“The rest of you, wallets on the tables,” the second robber yelled, pulling his own gun from his pocket.

“Varric, tell me you brought Bianca,” Juliet whispered.

“I never leave her at home,” Varric said indignantly. He jerked his head towards his bag.

“Naia?”

“On it,” Naia said, pulling her brass knuckles out of her own bag. “Juliet, you get the attention of the guy at the bar so I can take him out. Varric, move around and flank the guy by the door.”

Juliet nodded and slowly stood. She pulled her wallet from her purse and tossed it on the table, raising her hands obediently. Of course, Juliet with her hands raised could do more damage than Varric and Naia put together, but hopefully she wouldn’t have to prove it tonight.

Slowly, Naia began creeping underneath other tables, keeping her head low and as much cover as she could between her and the robbers. The three of them had been near the back of the bar, so she had hope that they hadn’t noticed her before she hit the floor.

“ _Hurry up_!” yelled the first robber. Through the forest of table and chair legs, Naia could see him jabbing his gun at the bartender’s temple. The bartender—Alistair, that was his name—barely flinched and kept his focus on shoving bills into a battered paper bag.

“He’s hurrying,” Juliet said loudly, stepping towards the bar. “Leave him alone. He’s doing what you want.” A slight prickle at the back of Naia’s neck told her that Juliet was drawing her magic close, preparing to use it if things went bad.

The robber spun and leveled his gun on her. “Sit down and shut up.”

“Okay, okay,” Juliet said, perching on one of the bar stools, her hands still raised.

The gunman turned his attention back to Alistair. “Tips too, asshole. And if you don’t finish in the next ten seconds, you’re dead. Understand? Ten … nine … eight …”

Alistair moved over to the tip jar and picked it up.

“Seven … six …”

The countdown never reached five. Naia had successfully snuck under the nearest table, so she launched herself at the gunman. The robber barely had time to turn his head before she planted a hard kick at the side of his left knee. He howled in pain and tried to swing the gun around at her, but Naia was ready for that move; she stepped close, grabbed his right wrist with her right hand, spun inside his reach, and used her left elbow to strike him square in the gut before she flipped him over her back and onto the floor. The gun clattered to the ground several feet away from its owner.

The second robber turned to help—only to find Varric standing in his path. Varric racked Bianca with a grim smile. “Drop it, or I’ll let Bianca here introduce herself.”

“I suggest listening to the man,” Naia said, claiming the first robber’s gun and pointing it at his partner.

The robber’s eyes darted around the room, and came to rest on—Alistair.

“Get down!” Juliet yelled as the robber fired over Varric’s head.

Fortunately Alistair was already ducking. The bullet whistled through the air and shattered a bottle of vodka at the back of the bar. As glass rained down, Bianca’s familiar _boom_ split the bar; the second robber sailed several feet back before collapsing against the wall, his gun sliding from his now-limp fingers.

Absolute silence fell. Naia turned her gaze to Alistair, who was slowly standing up, trying to shake shards of glass from his hair without cutting himself.

_You. They were here for you._

_Why?_

Judging from the baffled look on Alistair’s face, he was asking the same question.


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair was almost impressed by the speed with which the Denerim guard responded to the call. Apparently gunshots were the way to get their attention. _Good to know._ Not that he hoped to have the guard’s attention much—more the opposite.

Rank-and-file patrolmen in grey-and-green uniforms were taking witness statements, but Alistair had been ushered into the manager’s back office, along with the three patrons who’d helped take down the robbers. That terrifying elven detective Alistair had seen on the news had told them to stay put before going out to supervise witness statements. Alistair got the feeling that Detective Leto knew these three.

They were a strange little group, even by Denerim standards. The elf looked like Alistair’s usual clientele, a twenty-something in faded jeans, there to blow off steam after a day at school or a shift at one of the shops nearby. The human, on the other hand, looked more put together than most of the other patrons; her slacks were neatly pressed and her red sweater set off her dusky skin and dark brown hair. And Varric Tethras would have been perfectly at home in one of the criminal dive bars he described in his books. Alistair suddenly found himself wondering how much of _Hard in Hightown_ was actually fictional.

He stretched back, trying to conceal his unease, then hissed in pain as a bit of glass in his collar sliced into his skin.

The human woman noticed. “Here, let me help. Where is it?”

“Neck,” Alistair said, trying not to move.

The woman pushed the sleeves of her sweater above her elbows and produced a tissue from one of her pockets. A moment later, she’d reached into his collar and quickly plucked out the shard. “There you go. Here, let me see if there’s any more.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said, trying to hold still as the woman checked his hair and collar. “Really, thank all of you. I’m not sure what would have happened out there if you hadn’t stopped those two.”

“You’re welcome. I wasn’t about to let them rob a fan,” Varric Tethras said.

Alistair was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that his favorite author had just shot an armed robber in his bar. “Who are you three, exactly?”

“I’m Naia Tabris, and this is Juliet Hawke. We’re private investigators. And Varric’s a lawyer,” the elf said, as if that explained everything.

Alistair looked over at Varric. “So you’re an author _and_ a lawyer?”

“How else would I get ideas for my stories?” the dwarf replied. “Besides, despite popular rumor most authors aren’t rolling in cash.”

Alistair could sense that there was more to it than that—for instance, he didn’t think most lawyers went around with sawed-off shotguns—but he let it drop. “I’m Alistair. A bartender. But you already knew that.”

“A bartender with excellent reflexes,” Juliet observed.

“Why, thank you. I do take pride in my ducking-and-hiding ability.” In reality Alistair was a bit embarrassed. He’d been preparing to chuck the tip jar at the first robber when Naia had appeared, but otherwise he’d done nothing except not get shot.

“Both are underrated skills,” the elf said. “So. Any idea who wants you dead?”

If Alistair had had a drink, he would have choked on it. He’d hoped that he was being paranoid, that the gunman had been trying to shoot at Varric and had just been a really bad shot. But Naia had seen it too. The gunman had been aiming for him, even after it became clear that the robbery would fail.

All three of them were looking at him expectantly. Alistair shook his head. “Not a clue. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve only lived in Denerim for three months.”

Juliet opened her mouth to ask a question, but closed it when the door opened. Detective Leto stepped in, his face completely expressionless.

“You four have had an interesting night,” the detective said, flipping through his notebook.

Alistair felt himself make an incredulous face. “By interesting, do you mean bad? Because I would describe it as bad. Personally.”

The detective ignored him. “Witness accounts are fairly consistent, but the four of you will need to make more formal statements, since you were directly involved with the shooting.”

“I assume your witness statements indicate that Varric was acting in self-defense,” Juliet interrupted. “He shot only after the robber fired.”

The detective closed his eyes and looked extremely annoyed. “Yes, I know that. But the fact remains that a man is dead.”

“What does his partner say?” Naia asked.

The detective’s eyes fell back to his notebook. “His partner is being treated for a possible concussion. Which Miss Tabris appears to have given him.”  

“You say that like she did something wrong,” Alistair said indignantly.

“That’s not what I’m suggesting, Mr. …”

“Guerrin. Alistair Guerrin.”

The room went quiet. Alistair had known it would. His adoptive father’s last name tended to have that effect on people. It was why he didn’t use it unless he had to, but right now he was glad for it. He wondered what would have happened if he used his biological father’s name.

The detective’s posture shifted subtly. “My aim here is not to file charges. But we need to have your statements on the record.”

“I hope that record will reflect that we’re cooperating under the assurance that the Guard is not pursuing criminal charges, Detective,” Varric said evenly, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

The detective gritted his teeth. “Yes, Counselor, you have my assurance that you and your friends are not being questioned as suspects.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Detective,” Varric said, standing. “All right. Point me to your patrolman so I can go home.”

Detective Leto nodded. “The three of you, follow me. Mr. Guerrin, you can stay here. I’ll return to take your statement.”

As they filed out of the room, Alistair felt a tug on his sleeve. The red-haired elf slipped a card into his hand. “Just in case you need some help answering that question I asked,” she whispered. “Drop by any time.”

Alistair waited until the door closed to take a look. The card was plain white with black lettering; it said only “Tabris Investigations,” with an address and phone number underneath. He tucked it into his pocket, mostly to hide it from Detective Leto.

He might not know who wanted him dead, but he had a pretty good guess about why. _It probably goes back to Maric. It always does._

* * *

 

Fenris worked late into the night and filed his report on the shooting at the bar first thing the next morning. Once the medics had treated the surviving robber’s injuries—not a concussion, as it turned out, just some bruises and a very sprained wrist—he’d immediately confessed to the robbery. Not that he had much choice about that. But when Fenris had pressed him on his motives, the man had insisted that they’d just wanted to rob the place and then had refused to say more without a lawyer.

The two shooters had lengthy but undistinguished records of burglaries and petty theft. That seemed to point to a robbery gone wrong, but Fenris’s gut feeling was that there was more to the story. Someone taking a shot at a bartender who just happened to be Eamon Guerrin’s son was too big a coincidence even for Denerim.

He wondered what the new Guard leadership would make of the incident. He didn’t have to wonder long. An hour after he’d arrived, a young patrolwoman—a dwarf, rare for the Guard—came up to him. “Guard Captain Vallen would like to see you in her office, Detective.”

Fenris collected his case notes, then climbed the stairs to the second floor of Denerim’s guard house and went to the south corner office, the largest one with the best view of the street. He knocked quietly.

“Come in!” the Captain’s decisive voice called.

Fenris pushed open the door and extended his hand. Captain Vallen stood from her chair and shook it, her grip firm and warm. The Captain was a few inches taller than Fenris, broad-shouldered and intimidating; Fenris could easily picture her chasing down and tackling a suspect. Her fair, freckled cheeks were slightly chapped from the winter cold, and her pale ginger hair was pulled back from her face, highlighting her strong jaw and broad cheekbones. She had rejected the formal uniform in favor of ordinary Guard grey-and-greens, though the badge pinned to her lapel marked her out as their Captain.

Fenris had visited this office several times during Captain Hammett’s tenure, but after just a month in Captain Vallen’s hands it looked utterly unfamiliar. Her predecessor had decorated the office with pictures of himself shaking hands with various luminaries and expensive knick-knacks monogrammed with his name. Captain Vallen had stripped the walls and placed a row of filing cabinets in easy reach. The only decoration on her desk besides a cup of pens was a small stack of folders. He immediately noticed that his report from this morning was open in front of her chair.

Captain Vallen sat down and gestured for him to do the same. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Detective Leto. I read your report on the incident last night. There seemed to be some ambiguity about the motive. The suspect claims it was a routine robbery attempt, but his accomplice just happened to take a shot at Eamon Guerrin’s adopted son?”

Fenris nodded. Captain Vallen crossed her arms and frowned thoughtfully. “Interesting. Did Mr. Guerrin have any idea why someone might want him killed?”

“He said he did not.” Fenris pulled out his notebook, more for looks than anything else; he had an excellent memory, and writing still did not come easily to him. “According to him, he’s only lived in Denerim for three months. He spent the previous four years in the Templar academy but declined a commission when it was offered. He says he hasn’t seen the Councilman in over five years. I gather the adoption was a matter of legal convenience, little more.”

“Hmm. Still, it’s worth having a chat with Councilman Guerrin to see if anyone might have it in for him or his family.”

“Do you wish to conduct the interview?” Fenris asked neutrally. Captain Hammett, certainly, would not have passed up an opportunity to conduct some politics.

Aveline Vallen shook her head. “I’ll pass. We don’t want to give the appearance of special treatment.” The Captain flipped to a new page of his report. “I see that three civilians are credited with foiling the robbery. They all seem to be _very_ well known around this department.” She reached for a new file, one packed so thick with papers that its spine seemed close to ripping in half. “Tell me about Naia Tabris.”

 _How long do you have?_ “She’s a private investigator,” Fenris began, trying to figure out how to hit the highlights of Tabris’s colorful career. “Extremely popular in the alienage—something of a folk hero, in fact. It was widely rumored that she was behind the Dark Wolf burglaries ten years ago. The guard was unable to prove anything. Almost everyone the Dark Wolf hit was involved in something illegal, which made victim cooperation problematic. Also, her age complicated the investigation.” Tabris had been sixteen at the time.

“And since then?”

“Since then she has had a tendency to involve herself in police investigations”—hence the massive file with her name on it—“but she’s stayed on the right side of the law.” _Mostly. As far as we know._ “Her association with Tethras began shortly after the Dark Wolf burglaries. He appears to have been a stabilizing influence.”

“Ah. Yes. Mr. Tethras, the lawyer.” Captain Vallen lifted another file—this one so thin Fenris wondered if it contained any paper at all. “As far as I can tell, he has exactly three current clients: Naia Tabris, Juliet Hawke, and Elmand Tethras. And Elmand appears to be imaginary.”

“We’ve never been able to prove that either,” Fenris sighed. “Not that we’ve truly tried. The Tethras family businesses all seem to operate legally. There’s been no reason to dig deeper into Cousin Elmand.”

“And what about Juliet Hawke?” Captain Vallen tapped a third file, somewhere in size between the first two.

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “She used to be a Guardswoman. She quit around three years ago.” Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d had anything to do with that. Guilt twisted his stomach. “A few months after that she took up with Tethras and Tabris. The three of them share an office space out by the alienage. They take a mix of cases, some criminal, some civil, nothing high-profile.”

“Strange. I could find nothing but glowing reviews of her work. By all accounts she was about to be promoted to detective. She left a promising career,” the Captain said thoughtfully. “You think they were all there by chance?”

Fenris nodded. “Although I will admit that chance seems to place them in dangerous situations with remarkable regularity.”

Captain Vallen’s mouth quirked in an almost-smile. “Indeed. Well, detective. That brings us to—you.” She closed his report and pushed the files aside. “How is your task force going?”

“I’m pleased with our progress so far. I’ve put a new system in place that ensures all reports from the alienage will cross either my desk, or that of someone on my team.” Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “But to be truthful, Captain, I’m not sure I’m the right person for this.”

“Is that so?” the Captain asked neutrally. “Why not?”

“Because I know very little about the alienage.” Fenris paused, but he had to know. “Was I chosen for this because I’m an elf?”

Guard Captain Vallen leaned back in her chair and pinned him with a cool look. “No. You were assigned to this because I have serious concerns about your work.”

Fenris felt as if someone had poured ice water down his back. Whatever he’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that.

The Captain continued. “I’ve read your case files, Detective, and I’ll be blunt. You're known around the department for poaching cases that involve illegal magic and mages, and for handing off cases that don't."

Fenris could feel his temper rise; he tried to stamp it down. “I happen to be uniquely suited to those cases, and not just because of my … abilities. I know first-hand what magic can do. Do you?”

The Captain’s gaze wavered not an inch. “I do. My late husband was a Templar who died in the line of duty.”

Aveline Vallen’s voice asked for no sympathy, but Fenris still felt like a lout. “I apologize. I did not know.”

“Few do. And I would appreciate it if you did not spread it around, Detective,” she said briskly. “I’m telling you this so that we can be absolutely clear: I understand your interest in magic and its misuse, but a City Guard is not a place for carrying out one’s personal vendettas. We are here to protect the people of Denerim. The fact that you’ve worked here six years and admit to knowing little about the alienage is troubling. I am giving you the chance to rectify that.” She paused for emphasis. “But I wouldn’t give you the assignment if I didn’t believe you would excel at it.”

Fenris didn’t know how to respond to that, so he simply nodded. “May I be dismissed?”

Captain Vallen nodded. “Dismissed. And tell me when you’ve set up a meeting with Eamon Guerrin.”

Fenris slipped out of the Captain’s office feeling more than a little off-balance. _Apparently I will not be getting off the task force any time soon._


	3. Chapter 3

When he returned home after the shooting, Alistair spent nearly an hour sweeping his tiny apartment for assassins, bombs, and other threats. By the time he lay down in his bed, it was almost five in the morning. He still couldn’t sleep.

Finally, he stood up, picked his jeans up from the chair where he’d tossed them, and pulled Naia Tabris’s card out of the pocket.

Back in the bar, when the shock of the shooting had still been fresh, he’d assumed that someone had been after him because of Maric, and that was all the information he really needed. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that knowing Maric was somehow involved was not going to keep him alive. He needed to find out why someone had tried to kill him tonight.

 _I was almost a Templar,_ he told himself. _I would have had a sword and everything. I could investigate this myself._

But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he could. Templars were trained for one purpose and one purpose alone: controlling mages. There hadn’t been many training sessions on how to solve an attempted murder that probably had a decades-old political motivation. He genuinely had no clue where to start.

But how could he trust them with his secret? How could he trust _anyone_ with that kind of secret?

His mind replayed what had happened in the bar that night—the pretty human stepping forward, drawing the robber’s attention. The red-haired elf appearing from nowhere, her movements fast and precise and utterly fearless. Varric bloody Tethras and his shotgun completing the maneuver. They hadn’t needed to do that. Up until that point he was the only person the thieves had threatened, and they’d put themselves in harm’s way to help.

 _I’m going to have to trust someone with this,_ he thought, putting the card down on his nightstand. _Might as well be someone who saved my life_.

*

Alistair called Naia Tabris the next morning. The elf was calm and professional on the phone; she almost made it seem normal to be calling a private detective after someone shot a gun at your head.

“How about two o’clock? I’m in my office all afternoon, unless a crisis comes up,” she assured him. “And if there is a crisis I’ll leave a note.”

“Two sounds fine,” Alistair said. Then he paused. “Um. I should ask about your rates.”

The initial consultation would be free, but Naia’s hourly rate was ever so slightly above Alistair’s hourly pay, and he didn’t like the sound of “plus expenses.”

“Ah. Very reasonable. No problem,” he lied. “See you at two.”

After hanging up the phone, Alistair stared at his wall for a moment, trying to think if there was another way to handle this. He looked around his studio apartment, the battered, shoebox-sized room that he could afford on what he was making, and remembered that his last bank balance had barely covered rent, food, and a too-large winter jacket from the thrift store.

With a resigned sigh, he picked up the phone again. “Yes, hi. Alistair Guerrin here. Yes, I’m related to the Councilman.” _Sort of. Legally. Haven’t seen him in years, though. His wife hates me. Don’t ask._ “Does he have any appointments open today?

*

Forty-five minutes and two bus rides later, Alistair was standing in front of the City Council building in downtown Denerim, an impressively blocky stone structure that looked more like a military fortress than an office building. He’d been here a handful of times before Eamon—or, more accurately, Isolde—had shipped him off to that boarding school, and he had an odd sense of lost time as he stood on the steps. It was almost like being fifteen again. _Hopefully without the cracking voice or the acne. Could do without those._

Alistair climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the Council building, the floor that held the offices for the five Council members, and quietly gave his name to the dwarven woman sitting in the outermost room of Eamon’s suite. The small brass nameplate on her desk said “Dora Helvis.”

“The Councilman is expecting you,” the woman said calmly, her brown pageboy swinging slightly as she nodded at him. “Please have a seat.”

At eleven fifteen on the dot, Dora showed him into Eamon’s office. Eamon immediately rose from the desk when Alistair entered, a smile threatening to split his lined face. Alistair’s adopted father was in his mid-sixties, solid and respectable, with pale skin that bore a faint pink windburn from the cold. He wore a grey suit a few shades darker than his neatly trimmed beard. It was plain but impeccably tailored—the latter almost certainly the result of Isolde’s Orlesian eye for fashion and design.

After a slightly awkward pause, the two men settled on a handshake instead of a hug. “Good to see you, my boy,” Eamon said warmly. “So very good to see you.”

Alistair felt like a lout—but only briefly, until he realized that Eamon could have picked up the phone and called him at, oh, any point during the last thirteen years or so. Still, that smile brought to mind the times he’d felt most at home, those years spent playing board games with Eamon and finding hiding places in the Guerrin estate, and part of him wondered why he’d stayed away. “And you, Eamon.”

“Please, sit. How are you? Maker, I was glad when you called. I had a very disturbing inquiry from a city detective early this morning. He said you were involved in a shooting?”

Alistair grimaced as he took his chair. “Oh, just a little robbery that got out of hand.” He wanted those words back as soon as he spoke them; that was too flippant. People besides him could have been killed. “We’re just lucky no one was hurt.”

“The detective made it sound as if the gunmen meant you harm.” Eamon’s blue eyes were shrewd as he watched Alistair. “You haven’t been, well, talking, have you?”

Any warmth or pleasure Alistair took from this visit drained quickly, leaving him cold and irritable. He shifted in the chair; his elbow slid from its arm and he had to catch himself. “Oh, you mean in the past thirteen years, have I told a single living soul my biggest and most life-altering secret? No. Don’t worry, you drilled that lesson into me. ‘Don’t tell anyone, Alistair, it would embarrass all of Denerim if anyone knew you existed.’”

Eamon let out a low, annoyed sigh. Alistair remembered that sound. “That’s unfair, Alistair. This was not a secret anyone decided to keep lightly. Rowan was ill, and then Cailan was so young …”

“… and Maric was always famous, and surprise bastards are never good for political careers?” Alistair finished, somewhat snidely. He could hear how petulant he was being, and was annoyed with himself for it. The truth was, he wasn’t angry because he’d been asked to keep Maric’s secret. He was angry because Isolde hadn’t believed the truth—that he had lost the only home he’d ever known because she had never been able to shake the suspicion that he was Eamon’s biological son.

He took a breath. “I’m sorry, Eamon. I—this wasn’t why I came.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you just wanted to see me,” Eamon said—wryly, but with a hint of hurt. “Please. What can I do for you?”

 _Get it over with, Alistair._ “I need access. To Mar—ah, to the, um, money.”

Eamon’s grey eyebrows climbed his forehead. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about it. Or intended to let it sit forever. Are you planning to leave Denerim? I couldn’t blame you after what had happened.”

That actually hadn’t occurred to Alistair—and the thought made him surprisingly angry. His apartment might be a rat hole, and his bar was a lot like thousands of other bars in Ferelden, but they were _his._ Why should one lousy robbery cost him his entire existence, send him to start over yet again in another strange place?

“Oh. Uh, no. I like my job,” he said lamely. Eamon, to his credit, did not question this statement. “I was going to spend it on, uh, security? Maybe a better building. I’m still working it out.”

Eamon had to know he was lying. That awkward, flat, too-casual tone was a dead giveaway. But Eamon said nothing about it, only, “Let me put in a call to the bank and let them know to expect you. It’s about time you took advantage of your inheritance. I’m glad.”

“Well, it does seem silly to let all that money just sit there,” Alistair said with feigned cheerfulness. Then a thought occurred to him. “Uh, by the way. What would happen to the money if something happened to me?”

“It would revert to Maric’s estate—and therefore to Cailan’s heirs.” Eamon frowned thoughtfully. “That’s a rather dark question, Alistair. What brings it about?”

“Just curious, I suppose,” Alistair said quickly. “I’ll make a will when I get home. I’ll just scrawl ‘I leave everything to a good charity’ on a napkin and tape it to my refrigerator in case the next robber is a better shot.”

Eamon raised an eyebrow at that, but reached for the intercom on his desk. “Dora? Could you get Mr. Severn at the bank on the phone? Alistair needs an appointment this afternoon.”

“Over lunch, actually, would be better,” Alistair interjected hurriedly.

“Right away, Mr. Guerrin,” Dora said smoothly. “And I was just about to buzz you. Detective Fenris Leto is here to see you.”

“Ah.” Eamon sounded neither surprised nor pleased by the news. “Send him in.”

A moment later, Eamon’s heavy wooden door opened to reveal Dora and the detective. Even sensible Dora looked taken aback by the elven detective’s striking looks. She kept casting glances at his hands and temples, where the silvery veins left by his Tevinter owner shone most brightly in the morning light from Eamon’s window.

Detective Leto offered his hand to Eamon with a polite murmur; Eamon shook it across the desk. Alistair followed suit, and couldn’t help noticing how quickly Leto pulled his hand away from the contact.

“Can I get you gentlemen any coffee?” Dora asked politely.

“Thank you, yes,” the elf said gravely. Without waiting to be asked, he sat in the chair next to Alistair. That drew a frown from Dora, but she was far too discreet to complain. With a _click,_ the door closed.

“Well. I should be on my way,” Alistair said awkwardly, pulling his feet underneath him and preparing to stand. “I’ll just wait outside for Dora to make that appointment. Don’t want to interrupt crucial city business.”

“Actually, my visit concerns you, Mr. Guerrin,” Leto said smoothly, pulling out his notebook. “I was under the impression you had not seen the Councilman for some time, and yet, here you are.”

Dora, bless her, chose that moment to interrupt with the coffee tray. She smiled at Alistair as she set it down. “Mr. Severn said he can see you at noon. Would you like me to point you in the right direction?”

Alistair sprang out of his chair. “Yes, that would be great. Thanks. Nice to see you Eamon, Detective.”

With that, he all but fled the room. Even a conversation with a banker sounded more relaxing than being questioned by Detective Leto again.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris tried to keep his irritation from showing on his face as Alistair Guerrin left the Councilman’s office. He had believed the bartender when he said that he and his adopted father hadn’t spoken in years—but finding Alistair here now seemed too odd a coincidence for Fenris to swallow. Had Alistair lied? Or had he really chosen this moment to see the Councilman after years of silence between them?

Answers, he suspected, would not be forthcoming from Eamon Guerrin. The Councilman had made more than a few public statements about the Guard’s treatment of suspected apostate mages, and every budget he put before the City seemed to take funding from magical safety and put it towards other, less controversial areas of spending. Fenris was operating on the assumption that Eamon would as soon see him fired and begging on the streets as asking questions in his office.

The Councilman cleared his throat. “To answer your earlier question, Detective, this is the first time I’ve seen Alistair in many years. We enrolled him in a boarding school as a teenager and haven’t seen much of him since.” He looked at Fenris sternly, with that sense of indignation and entitlement that only Denerim’s wealthy could summon in the face of questions from a guardsman. “I suppose you’re here to ascertain whether I have any enemies who might have come at me through Alistair?”

“Do you?” Fenris asked mildly.

“I doubt it. They would be far more likely to target my biological son Connor, or my wife Isolde. And I haven’t received any threats lately. We _do_ turn over anything suspicious to the City Guard, of course.”

“Of course,” Fenris murmured.

Eamon leaned back in his chair. “Do you have any leads on the attempted robbery?”

“The investigation is being aggressively pursued,” Fenris replied, testing the nib of his pen on a notebook page. “If you wouldn’t mind, there are a few background matters I was hoping to clear up.”

Guerrin spread his hands wide. “Anything the Guard needs.”

Fenris could not resist a slightly needling question. “Why adopt Alistair, if you intended to have so little to do with his upbringing?”

That got a reaction from the Councilman. He scowled furiously, as if Fenris had crossed a line. It was usually the expression someone made when they felt guilty. “I fail to see why that is relevant to your investigation, Detective,” he snapped. “My wife and I took Alistair’s care very seriously.”

 _So his wife had something to do with the decision to send Alistair away. Interesting._ The simplest explanation, of course, was that Alistair was indeed Eamon’s by-blow. But that didn’t quite fit for Fenris. For one thing, Alistair looked nothing like the smaller, plainer Eamon. For another, if Eamon was trying to hide his role in Alistair’s parentage, adopting him was a strange way to do it. And earlier Eamon had referred to Connor as his “biological son”—the implication being that Alistair was not.

“Could Alistair’s biological parents have reason to harm him?” he pressed.

“I sincerely doubt it. They’re dead,” Eamon said shortly. “At least, his mother is. She was a lovely young woman—she worked on my first campaign for City Council. When she died in childbirth I thought it only right to make sure the boy received proper care. She never told me the father’s name. I gathered that their relationship was, ah, brief.”

 _Too much explanation,_ Fenris thought, dutifully writing down the outline of Eamon’s story anyway. _I would have thought a politician would be a better liar._

“His mother’s name would be helpful,” Fenris said as he scribbled.

“Sara Cavell. That’s C-A-V-E-L-L. But I really don’t see what this has to do with—“

Eamon’s words were cut off when the door to his office burst open, revealing an agitated, dark-haired man, dressed in wool trousers, dark red suspenders, and neatly pressed shirtsleeves.

Purely out of habit, Fenris let power flow into his lyrium tattoos; his hands flared faintly blue as he steeled himself to respond. Eamon, however, seemed unalarmed. “Loghain, will you _ever_ learn to knock?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, letting the power fade. Loghain Mac Tir, the legendary retired general, had stepped into his son-in-law’s Council seat after Cailan’s Theirin’s death in a sporting accident. From what Meredith had told him, Loghain was vocal on matters of public safety, though not so concerned about magic as Meredith might have liked. Still, Fenris welcomed the opportunity to meet the man.

Loghain, however, appeared to regard Fenris as just another piece of furniture. His bright hazel eyes bore into Eamon as he stalked into the room. “Eamon, when in the Maker’s name are you going to get back to me about Stannard’s proposals?”

“Loghain, may I introduce …”

“I am tired of your stalling, Eamon. You know how important …”

“ _May I introduce_ Detective Fenris Leto of the City Guard?” Eamon said loudly, cutting off whatever Loghain was going to say.

Loghain blinked, then focused at last on Fenris. “Oh. My apologies. I thought you were one of Eamon’s many assistants.” After a beat, he offered his hand. Fenris shook it, trying to conceal his irritation. Apparently Loghain was among those Denerim humans who assumed any elf was there to render service to a human. Even one with silver hair and very visible lyrium tattoos.

“Councilman,” he said, his voice clipped.

Loghain appeared to recognize that he had caused offense. “My colleague Meredith Stannard speaks highly of you, Detective,” he said, with just a bit too much insincere warmth. Fenris inclined his head, pretending to be flattered by the compliment.

“Well. I won’t take up more of your time, Councilman Guerrin,” he said, standing from his chair and flipping his notebook closed. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Councilman Mac Tir, a pleasure.”

*

As Fenris walked out of the City building, his brain fairly hummed with speculation. Though Meredith Stannard had done him more than a few favors, he was not part of her inner political circle; he had little insight into what Eamon and Loghain had been talking about. But that didn’t stop him from being curious. Was Meredith finally going to succeed in placing all Denerim mages, even those that did not use their magic, under the control of Denerim’s Department of Magi?

Fenris himself thought the idea was sensible. Tevinter, his homeland, was a place where magic ruled—quite literally. Those with family connections and magical talent could rise to status and wealth. Mostly, they used their magic to wage silent, secret wars with rival families, carrying out assassinations and ruining business plans.

But magic was also handy for crushing the powerless masses beneath them. Or for turning a desperate teenager like Fenris into a living weapon.

He didn’t really know if he had been desperate—it was just his best guess. He could remember nothing before the moment he woke twelve years ago, gasping in agony as the lyrium seeped into his body. He had never learned what the Tevinter magister responsible for this experiment had hoped to create, but Danarius had not been disappointed to discover that his work had given him an amnesiac slave with unnatural strength and the ability to reach into someone’s chest and crush their vital organs. Fenris had spent six years hovering behind his “benefactor,” intimidating Danarius’s foes and killing when ordered to do so. Then he had escaped and spent three years on the run, travelling from Tevinter through Orlais and into Ferelden before finding an ally in Councilwoman Meredith Stannard.

He was smart enough to realize that Meredith had helped him because his life story supported her quest to change how Denerim dealt with its mages. But he did not fault her for that, not when her goal was so important.

_Mages cannot be allowed to roam free. They may swear they will not touch their magic, but the temptation will always be there—and when they break, others will pay the price._

Fenris’s feet slowed, and then stopped. He looked up to realize that he had unconsciously paused across the street from a liquor store—one he frequented more than he probably should. Thinking about Tevinter and Danarius usually led him deep into a bottle of whiskey and into a long evening of worrying about what would happen if Ferelden’s mages were set free to follow Tevinter’s example.

But this time, Aveline Vallen’s no-nonsense voice cut through his usual monologue. _A City Guard is not a place for carrying out one’s personal vendettas. We are here to protect the people of Denerim._

He growled in frustration. His interest in mages was hardly a vendetta. It was a rational concern.

But perhaps if he cracked the Guerrin case, he would be taken off that damned task force and allowed to return to his work.

With that hope fresh in his mind, Fenris took a deep breath and turned his head, forcing his eyes away from the displays of liquor in the store’s window. He resumed his walk, heading for the Guard house as quickly as he could, putting distance between himself and temptation. Eamon Guerrin hadn’t been particularly helpful, but there had to be other leads to follow.


	5. Chapter 5

Tabris Investigations was on the second floor of a slightly shabby but respectable-looking building close to the alienage. The stairwell let out into a windowless but comfortable lobby decorated with a rug, three armchairs, and a large, leafy plant. Three doors opened out into that small lobby. The first bore a black-and-white sign reading “Tabris Investigations” in a basic typeface, with “Naia Tabris, Owner” in smaller print beneath it. The second door had a near-identical Tabris Investigations sign listing Juliet Hawke as the PI in the office. The third door said “Tethras Holdings. Elmand Tethras, Proprieter.” Alistair had to squint to read that one; the letters carved in the brass plaque on the door were so thin and rubbed down as to be nearly illegible. Somehow, he suspected that wasn’t an accident.

Before he could knock on the first Tabris Investigations door, it burst open, revealing a panting, eager mabari hound with one paw raised. The massive dog cocked its head quizzically at Alistair, as if to ask what was taking him so long.

Naia Tabris rose from behind a battered metal desk. “Dog! Leave him alone.”

“It’s all right, I’ve always been a fan of this breed,” Alistair said, reaching out a hand to pat the mabari’s head. “What’s his name?”

“Dog,” said the elf, somewhat sheepishly. “He’s a stray. I didn’t want to give him a name because I can’t really keep him. Small apartment, no time, you know.”

Dog rubbed his head underneath Alistair’s fingers; Alistair had the momentary, absurd thought that maybe he could fit a mabari in his own tiny apartment. “Any luck finding him a new home? How long have you had him around?”

“Uh. Eighteen months, give or take,” Naia admitted. “I probably should have named the poor guy after all. But Dog stuck.”

The mabari craned his neck back towards her and gave her an adoring look, his mouth hanging open shamelessly as he panted. Naia laughed and snapped her fingers. The dog immediately ran to her side and sat, suddenly still and intimidating. “See? You have manners, when you remember them,” she said to the dog. “Please, have a seat.”

It took Alistair a moment to realize that “have a seat” was meant for him. He settled into one of the two armchairs in front of the desk, an inexpensive, blocky seat covered in brown fabric. He found it surprisingly comfortable despite its aesthetic shortcomings.

He waited until Naia had settled behind her desk to begin. “So. Um. I decided I’d like to know more about the shooting. I’d like to think it’s random, but … well, frankly I don’t think I’m that lucky.”

Naia raised an eyebrow. “That many enemies?”

Alistair laughed half-heartedly. “Maybe I’m flattering myself, but I don’t think I have any. No, if this is about me, it isn’t really about, well, me.” Too late, he realized how stupid that sounded, but Naia’s face betrayed no sense of irritation or amusement.

“Who is it about, then?”

Alistair took a deep breath. Forming the words wasn’t easy. It occurred to him that he had never actually told anyone this—only discussed it with people who already knew.

“Um. It’s about my biological father, probably. He was sort of important.” Maker, why couldn’t he just spit it out? “Most people think I’m Eamon’s by-blow. The truth’s a bit more complicated. Eamon did know my father, but …”

Naia’s eyes widened in realization. “Maric Theirin. Your father’s Maric Theirin.” 

Alistair felt his throat constrict. “How did you know?”

“You look a bit like your half-brother Cailan. I didn’t put it together until you mentioned that your biological father was important, though.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows raised. “Wow. Any idea why someone might want Maric Theirin’s secret son dead?”

Her voice was so calm and matter-of-fact that Alistair could have hugged her on the spot. He’d always imagined people being impressed, or appalled, or otherwise treating him differently once they knew. But Naia seemed to view it as just another fact to evaluate. It was a surprising relief.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I mean, I’ve been around for years! Why come after me now? The only thing I can think of that’s changed recently is that Cailan’s dead. But I have no idea what that has to do with me. Maric left me some money, and I guess it would go to Cailan’s widow if I died, but Anora’s already rich. It doesn’t seem worth the trouble for her.”

Naia nodded thoughtfully. “All right. We’ll keep her in mind. But let’s start from the beginning. Maybe there’s something you haven’t thought of yet.”

* * *

 

Naia spent the next hour or so taking a more detailed history of Alistair’s life. The most likely scenario was that the shooting had something to do with his secret parentage, but Naia had been surprised before; it didn’t hurt to have a fuller picture of what she might be dealing with.

Most people loved answering questions about themselves. Alistair seemed deeply uncomfortable. Naia suspected that he’d kept Maric’s secret for so long that he had a hard time opening up to anyone. It didn’t seem like a fun way to go through life. But she kept any sympathy or pity from her voice as she talked him through Eamon’s guardianship and his boarding school years.

“Did you start bartending right after you graduated?” she asked, scribbling away.

Alistair shifted in the chair. “No. I, um. I got a spot at the Templar Academy. Spent three years there as a trainee. They offered a commission at the end of it.”

“What does that mean?” Naia asked, her stomach sinking.

“They wanted me to become a full Templar—an Agent. But I had decided it wasn’t for me. That’s when I started bartending.”

Naia put down her pen and stared at her notes. All she’d written about that few sentences was TEMPLAR ACADEMY in big, heavy letters.

She looked up at Alistair after a beat. “Why wasn’t it for you?”

“I realized I didn’t want to be a prison guard.” Seeing Naia’s quizzical look, he elaborated. “The stuff you see in movies, daring Templars tracking down and fighting the worst of the worst magical criminals—that’s only a fraction of what they do. Most of the job involves living alongside people you might have to kill if they become possessed. And the mages—they pretty much hate your guts, for good reason. So I said thanks, but I’ll take the rat-infested apartment.” He met Naia’s eyes. “That probably sounds insane.”

Naia shook her head. “Not insane at all. Listen. I’ve got some contacts, apostate mages. If I needed to bring any of them in, and you saw them use magic without a Department license, would you feel obligated to contact your old buddies?”

“Buddies? At the Templar Academy? Have you actually  _ met  _ any Templars?” Alistair joked. Then he sobered. “To answer your question, no. I’m done with that part of my life. I wouldn’t turn anyone in, not if they weren’t hurting anyone.”

A little pressure eased from Naia’s chest. “Good to know.” She flashed Alistair what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “All right. Let’s talk first steps.”

* * *

 

As Juliet walked down the Denerim streets, she drummed her fingers against the strap of her bag and pondered some of the deepest mysteries of being a PI, such as why the most annoying clients always paid on time, thereby failing to give her a reason to dump them.

Angeline Clusky paid every bill a day before it was due, always in the correct amount. She was also a litigious and unpleasant woman who seemed to think private investigation was the solution every time someone mildly displeased her. Last time it had been her landlord, whom she was certain had failed to make requested repairs. When Mrs. Clusky lost that case she’d screamed at Juliet for a solid eight minutes before barging out in a huff, but two months later she’d waltzed back in as if nothing had happened and demanded that Juliet investigate her neighbor for keeping chickens in a backyard that wasn’t zoned for them. 

Tabris Investigations had taxes to pay, so Juliet said yes, but she couldn’t help hoping that maybe this time Mrs. Clusky’s check would bounce. For one thing, she had noticed that the woman refused to talk to Naia. She’d been smart enough not to say anything anti-elf to Juliet directly, but Juliet was pretty sure that Mrs. Clusky was the kind of person who used the term “knife-ears” in casual conversation. 

She climbed the stairs to Varric’s floor, already looking forward to collapsing in the comfortable armchair in her office and lying with her head against its pillowed back. When she pushed the door open, however, Naia immediately pounced.

“You’re back! How’s Mrs. Clusky?”

“She’s suing someone over illegal hens,” Juliet sighed. “I took some photos and talked to her about her suspicions. It wasn’t pretty. Many, many unkind things were said about chickens and disease. I won’t be able to eat an egg for weeks.”

“Well, good news. I’ve got something new. Something that has nothing to do with chickens whatsoever.” Naia jerked her head towards her office. Juliet looked over her shoulder and saw the cute bartender from the previous night.

Her first thought was that he’d looked Naia up to ask her out—it would not have been the first time a smitten guy turned up in Naia’s office with a lame story about why he needed a private detective—but his nervous expression and the pile of notes on Naia’s desk said otherwise. “He wants you to look into the shooting?”

“Yes. And he’s got a good reason to think it wasn’t random. But I’ll let him explain.”

*

“Maric Theirin.” Juliet was having a hard time swallowing this. “Maric Theirin is your biological father. And no one knew? None of his political enemies ever picked this up?”

Alistair shrugged. “What can I say? He didn’t tell many people, and neither did I.”

Juliet sat back in her chair. The handsome, charismatic Maric Theirin had been a central figure in Denerim politics when she was a child. She’d grown up in Lothering, a small town well distant from the capital, but even she had heard of Councilman Theirin. Maric had died in an apparent plane crash when Juliet was a teenager, leaving his eighteen-year-old son Cailan to inherit the family name and money. Everyone had assumed Cailan was the sole heir, but now, Juliet was learning a very different story.

“He’s been dead for years, though. Did his son—his other son, I mean—did Cailan know?”

Alistair shrugged. “I doubt it. Maric spent time with me, on occasion, but I only crossed paths with Cailan once. I didn’t introduce myself.”

“Even so, I think Anora’s our best lead,” Naia said, looking down at her notes. “Money’s an obvious motive, and she’s the only one who might stand to benefit financially if Alistair died.”

“And I will be changing that immediately,” Alistair added. “Legally, can I write my will on a cocktail napkin from work?”

“Try to find real paper,” Juliet said dryly. “Easier to write on, less likely to be smudged by someone’s glass of beer.”

Alistair chuckled at that. “Got it. Real paper. Can you loan me some, by any chance?”

“Anyway,” Naia said, her mouth curving in amusement. “We need to figure out how to get a meeting with Anora.” She tapped a pen thoughtfully against her desk, then yelled, “Hey Varric!”

A moment later the door opened, revealing Varric’s familiar, battered face. “Yeah, Sparks?”

“We need a consultation. How likely is it that Anora Mac Tir would agree to let us interview her?”

“Uh. Let’s see.” Varric pretended to consider the matter. “You’re an elf, and Hawke doesn’t make large political donations. I’d say your chances are around … zero. Sorry.”

“Would she talk to you?” Juliet asked.

Varric arched a thoughtful eyebrow, leaning his stocky frame against the doorjamb. “Now, there’s an interesting idea. Yeah, I think I could get in the door. Powerful people will usually talk to lawyers, if only to make sure they aren’t about to be hit with a really embarrassing lawsuit.”

Naia grinned at him. “That is exactly the kind of brilliant advice we pay you for, Varric.”

“It’s called rent, Sparks. You pay it for the office space,” Varric said with a chuckle before he turned his attention to Alistair. “Hey, nice to see you. You looking into the shooting last night?”

Alistair paused, then nodded. “I thought I should know more about why people might be trying to kill me.”

“Good policy,” Varric said agreeably. “Glad I can be of help. I hate missing out on the really interesting cases. Especially when I’m working on a new novel.”


	6. Chapter 6

At nine fifty-five the next morning, Varric climbed the front steps of the Mac Tir estate, having been buzzed through the gated driveway after announcing his name. Naia had pulled a favor with a friend of hers to get Varric a car and driver, for which he was grateful. Cars weren’t really his thing. His was a nondescript clunker littered with discarded drafts of _Hightown Confidential_ —if he’d shown up driving that, it would have been obvious that he wasn’t the expensive legal shark he’d pretended to be on the phone.

The Mac Tir family home was a two-hundred-year-old mansion, sheltered by old trees that dotted its sprawling grounds. Those trees were bare now, their leaves lost to the winter, and their branches cut an eerie pattern through the sky. Up close, the mansion’s east and west wings stretched out too far for Varric to see their ends from the front door.

_This is handy. If I ever write about a haunted house, I know what I’ll use as the inspiration._

Varric wondered if he was supposed to ring the doorbell—that seemed kind of plebian for a house like this—but he was saved from any embarrassing social faux pas when a doorman opened it for him. The doorman held out a hand for Varric’s coat, which he relinquished with a slight air of contempt. _Might as well have fun playing the part._

A slim, elegant elven woman dressed in a perfectly tailored grey skirt suit was waiting inside. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight bun, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses and subtle but expensive-looking gold jewelry. Varric gave her a thin smile and pretended to smooth out a wrinkle on his own suit—the most expensive one he owned, custom-made for dwarven measurements. Bartrand had pestered him into getting it years ago and he had to admit it had been a useful investment.

“Mr. Tethras. Ms. Mac Tir is ready for you. She’ll see you in her office.” Erlina cast one quick eye up and down Varric’s frame, packing skepticism into every flick of her eyelashes. Varric smiled back genially. Erlina had a good disdainful sneer, but she had nothing on the members of the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild.

The elf turned on one heel and began to march into the west wing. Varric followed, pretending not to notice wealth on display. The place wasn’t ostentatious, but everything was expensive and-or obviously inherited. Even the soft grey paint in the hallways looked pricey. Loghain Mac Tir had such a reputation as a military man that it could be easy to forget his family had been some of the wealthiest landowners in Ferelden.

Erlina’s heels came to an abrupt halt in front of a tall wooden door. She opened it just a fraction. “Ms. Mac Tir? The attorney is here to see you.”

Varric squared his shoulders and put on the slight smile he reserved for legal adversaries, the one suggesting that this was all sort of beneath him but he was putting up with it anyway. With a nod to Erlina—who nodded back with a slight air of annoyance—he stepped onto the plush white carpet of Anora’s office.

The room was brightly lit; sun streamed in from tall windows that ran from just a foot above the floor to just a foot below the ceiling. Anora had lined those windows with soft, gauzy curtains, preventing the light from being too harsh. An elegant wooden desk was placed at an angle in the corner of the room. There appeared to be no filing cabinets or paper of any kind; Varric could only surmise that Anora Mac Tir either didn’t really do her work here, or didn’t do much work at all.

Anora was seated at a small table on the right side of the room, quietly sipping something from a delicate white cup as she read the paper. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant twist, and she wore a pale green sweater and a pendant necklace decorated with one glittering diamond. A silver tray bore a pot and a second, unused cup.

She folded the paper as Varric entered. “Mr. Tethras. Sit, please. Do you take coffee?”

“I do. Thanks.”

As Anora poured, Varric took the seat opposite her and tried to study her without staring. He’d seen her in so many photographs over the years that seeing her in person was more than a little weird. Anora had been on the cover of just about every newspaper and magazine in Denerim, accompanied by fawning headlines like “Ferelden’s Most Elegant Hostess” or “The Impeccable Heiress.” In person she was striking rather than pretty, her features sharp and her blonde hair a bit too pale for her complexion, but she radiated a cool sort of charisma.

“Erlina tells me you have a client who wants to see Maric Theirin’s will.” She handed him the cup. “Do you take milk? It’s there on the tray.”

Varric didn’t, but pouring milk gave him something to do with his hands, so he nodded and reached for the little pitcher. “First, Ms. Mac Tir, thank you for seeing me. I assure you that my client wants no embarrassment or ill feeling to come out of this. They do, however, have legitimate reason …”

“You can stop being coy, Mr. Tethras. Your client is Alistair Guerrin.”

Varric kept his expression neutral. “I’m sorry?”

Anora arched one slender eyebrow. “It’s the only possibility that makes sense. Well, I suppose Eamon Guerrin might want to poke around in Maric’s estate for some reason, but Eamon would go through my father. I’m happy to allow Alistair to look at the documentation surrounding his father’s will, but I am confident that he received the inheritance that was left to him. If he did not, he should look to Eamon, not me.”

Varric sipped his coffee and tried to decide how to proceed. _Don’t deny it, but don’t admit it either_. “So. You’re saying Cailan had a brother?”

Anora leaned back in her chair, a small smile curving her mouth at the evasion. “Maric worked to hide it, but after Maric’s death, the terms of the estate made it obvious that money was being held in trust for some unnamed person. Eamon was the trustee, and Cailan put it together. Eamon’s mysterious adopted son was his half brother.”

 _Interesting._ “What did he do with that information?”

“Oh, nothing. Cailan did the math and realized Alistair had been born shortly after Rowan’s death—too shortly. The whole thing was unpleasant so he decided not to think about it.” Her lips quirked at the corners. “He was good at that, when it suited him.”

 _I guess death hasn’t erased the late husband’s flaws._ Varric wasn’t surprised. Anora Mac Tir didn’t strike him as a sentimental woman. Cailan had been popular, a handsome playboy turned responsible City Councilman, but not a few people had called Anora the brains behind his operation. Varric suddenly wondered why Loghain, not Anora, had stepped into the empty Council seat after Cailan died. He rather thought the elegant, sharp-tongued widow could go toe-to-toe with Meredith Stannard if she wanted to.

Anora met Varric’s gaze with intense, cool focus. “I have always assumed that if Alistair wanted to embarrass Cailan—or me—he would have tried long ago. But he seems to lack that kind of ambition. A bartender now, I believe?”

Varric poured a touch more milk into her coffee and stirred it. “You said you would be happy to let someone take a look at Maric’s will. Should I contact Erlina for a copy?”

Anora waved one manicured hand. “No need. I’ve already had one overnighted to your offices.”

Varric wondered if Anora had noticed the less-than-posh address. _Almost definitely_. “In that case, I’m sorry to have taken up your time.” He sipped his coffee. “Unless there was something else you wanted from this meeting?”

“How kind of you to ask.” Anora smiled again; there was more than a bit of an edge to it this time, the kind of smile someone wore to plaster over their anger. “As I’ve said, there’s nothing coming to Alistair from the estate that he hasn’t already received. I want you—and your client—to know that.” Her voice turned icy. “And I also want you both to know that if he tries to claim more, or smear my father-in-law’s memory for financial gain, he will not like the consequences.”

“Ah. I see.” _How nice of her to threaten me in person._

As Anora looked across the table at him, clearly wishing he would go away, Varric smiled and took another sip of his coffee. Milk or no, it was probably the best coffee he’d ever had, and he intended to finish the cup.

 

* * *

 

Three years after quitting her job, Juliet had accepted that it would always feel a little weird to walk into the Guard house wearing civilian clothes. At least she no longer tried to go through the side entrance, the one reserved for patrolmen with actual Guard keys. Instead, she walked up the steps to the squat yellowish building along with her fellow Denerim citizens and joined them in the line for the metal detector. She stripped off her long grey coat and her scarf as she approached, revealing what she thought of as her PI uniform—black pants and a white sweater, as boring as she could get without putting on a burlap sack. Always best to go unnoticed in this line of work.

Of course, it was hard to go unnoticed in a place where you used to work long shifts side-by-side with people trained to notice things. By the time she cleared the line, a familiar face was waiting for her, a slight smile crinkling his eyes.

“Hawke. Still protecting and serving, I hear.”

“Guardsman Donnic,” Juliet said with a grin. “Nice to see you too.”

Donnic Hendyr was a plain-spoken human with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, slightly ragged brown hair that usually fell around the nape of his neck, and kindly brown eyes. He’d been Juliet’s partner for about a year and was by far the best one she’d ever had—Donnic was easygoing, but hardworking and scrupulously honest. He was also one of the few human Guard members who took crimes against elves seriously. Which reminded her …

“Hey, any chance they’ve put you on that alienage task force?” she asked. “They should, if they haven’t.”

“I’ll pass that along to Fenris Leto. I bet he loves it when rank-and-file patrolmen tell him how to do his job,” Donnic said wryly.

Juliet fought back a frown. _I can’t believe he hasn’t been promoted yet._ Maybe the new Guard Captain would be the type who would notice and reward someone like Donnic—someone who did the hard, everyday police work instead of digging for flashy cases and a fast career track.

Donnic’s mouth quirked, as if he could hear what she was thinking. “So. What brings you here? Giving a second statement about that shooting?”

“Actually, I’m here to take a look at the report. The public one, not any of the witness statements or internal documentation. I just want the information any member of the public would be entitled to,” she said virtuously.

“And, of course, if a friendly Guardsman happened to accidentally leave that extra information in the folder, you wouldn’t ever take a look at it,” Donnic chuckled. “Come on. You can sit at my desk while I pull the file.”

Donnic led Juliet back to the row of metal desks that made up the patrolman’s wing of the building. He would share this desk with at least two other patrolmen, she knew; she just hoped none of them wanted to use it before she was done looking at the report. She took the chair next to the desk and leaned back casually, trying to look as if she was just there to catch up with a friend.

Ten minutes later Juliet had what she needed--the name and address of the dead man, Sean Harven, and his accomplice, Gorv Potts, along with a detailed history of their criminal records. She took careful notes, only consulting the non-public documents when she was confident no one was looking.

When she was done, she passed the folder back to Donnic with a little smile. “Thank you, Guardsman. Most enlightening.”

“Happy to help,” Donnic said with an amused grin. “I think you owe me three favors now, by the way.”

“Four. But who’s counting?” Juliet said sheepishly. “Can I buy you breakfast?”

“Thanks, but I’m about to walk a beat in the market district. Rain check?”

“Count on it,” Juliet promised.

She kept her head down and her small notebook tucked in the pocket of her jacket as she started for the exit of the building. She liked many of the other members of the Guard, but Naia was waiting for this information, and …

“Hawke.”

_Shit._

Juliet let herself close her eyes briefly and curse her bad luck before turning around with a smile on her face. “Detective Leto. What a nice surprise.”

Leto’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I do work here. Is it really so surprising?” Casually, he slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, pushing his jacket further open. Juliet could see the faint glow of his lyrium tattoos through the shirt fabric.

“Hmmm, good point.” _Maker’s breath, is talking to him ever_ not _going to be awkward?_ “Any news about the shooting?”

“Nothing beyond what you undoubtedly just read in the report Guardsman Donnic pulled for you.” Leto curled one silver eyebrow, daring her to deny it.

“Well, let me know when you crack it. That was one of my more interesting nights out. I kind of want to know how the story ends,” Juliet said blandly. “Oh. Speaking of Guardsman Donnic, can I make a suggestion?”

“Can I stop you?” Leto’s green eyes narrowed in amusement.

“You want Donnic on your task force. He’s honest, a hard worker, and he knows the alienage about as well as any human can.” _Better than you do,_ she added silently.

Leto blinked thoughtfully. “I will take it under advisement. Thank you.”

Juliet smiled. By Leto’s standards that was practically effusive. “You’re welcome. Nice seeing you, Detective.” She raised one hand in a little goodbye wave.

For a moment, it looked as if Leto was getting up the courage to say something—but then he merely nodded in acknowledgement. “And you, Hawke.”


	7. Chapter 7

Naia woke earlier than she would have liked to find the tip of her nose ice-cold. The heat was on the fritz again, apparently. With a soft groan, she rolled her face into her pillow, but her stirring had woken Dog, who yipped in displeasure and tried to dig under the covers to join her. 

_ Guess we’re awake. _

She scratched affectionately behind Dog’s ears, then pushed back the tangle of blankets, rolled out of bed, and flipped the light switch.

Naia’s alienage apartment was a bare-bones one-bedroom on the third floor of a converted warehouse. It was more space for less money than shems would pay outside the alienage, but the tradeoff was that Naia’s human landlord—who lived as far from the alienage district as he could get without actually leaving Denerim—often played fast and loose with niceties like working heat. Fortunately Naia was handy.

She sat cross-legged in front of the old metal radiator and opened her tool kit, swatting away Dog’s curious paw. She’d taken to keeping it on the floor by the heater because this happened at least once a month; the radiator was old and various parts of it shook loose or tightened on their own as the metal expanded and contracted. A few tweaks, and Naia heard the reassuring hiss that meant it was working again.

Since she was up, Naia turned her water as hot as it would go and stood in the shower until she didn’t feel half frozen any more. Then she dried her hair until it was hot to the touch, knowing that going out in the winter cold with wet hair would be an unpleasant experience. 

She had just returned from taking Dog out for his morning bathroom break when her phone rang.

“It’s me,” Juliet said without preamble. “Did I wake you?”

“I wish,” Naia said, grabbing for pen and paper. “Any luck?”

“Donnic was in. I’ve got some addresses for you.”

*

Naia looked up at the building where Sean Harven had lived and took a deep breath, letting it out in a puff of steam, where it condensed into fog in the cold winter air. Her heart was beating just a little bit faster and she fought back an almost manic smile.

_ Damn, this feels good. _

Years ago Varric had helped her see that a career in burglary, while quite a lot of fun, was also quite likely to land her in jail, and that was only if her propensity for burgling Denerim’s criminal element didn’t get her killed first. These days she tried to channel her thrill-seeking into more productive channels. She liked her work; she was a good investigator, and most days she thought she hit that nice sweet spot between playing with fire and playing it smart. But her spirits always lifted when she got to take her lockpicks along for the ride.

Sean Harven had lived in a squat three-story building made of yellow-orange brick, trimmed with rusted bars on the ground floor windows. Naia had a couple of opening gambits for getting into an apartment building; usually she pretended to be a one-night stand, or for bigger buildings where people were less likely to know all their neighbors, she fumbled for her keys as a real resident approached. 

Her tricks weren’t necessary today. On a hunch, Naia tried the knob to the outer door and gave it a gentle push. It yielded with a slight creak. The loose way the knob turned in her hand told her that the lock was broken and had been for quite some time. The linoleum-floored hallway that Naia entered was dimly lit. Half of the overhead lights were dead, and the other half flickered unpleasantly, casting a pale yellow hue over everything. She felt an unexpected pang of kinship with Sean Harven, whose landlord also obviously did not give a shit.

After surviving the trip through the unpleasant-smelling stairwell, Naia found herself at the door to Apartment 212, sliding her hands into the thin cotton gloves she used to conceal her fingerprints in situations like this. The cheap, brittle lock on the splintered wooden door did not even require lockpicks, to her disappointment; she only had to insert a thin metal strip between the door and the doorjamb to coax the deadbolt open.

The inside of the apartment proved surprising. Most criminals, in Naia’s experience, were not careful people. Naia was used to finding piles of filthy laundry, dishes piled in the sink, and other messes that made her own slobbishness pale in comparison. But Harven’s apartment was—to borrow her father’s phrase—neat as a pin. It was a little studio with a bathroom to Naia’s left, a tiny half-kitchen on the right, a narrow bed with tightly made sheets set in the back left corner, and a tiny table with two chairs shoved off to the right under the sole window. The second chair, the one in the corner, had a thin film of dust on the back.

Naia squinted into the room, frowning.  _ If I kept a bank book, or cancelled checks, where would they be? _ Her eyes eventually settled on the bed—its frame hid two drawers beneath the mattress. The first drawer contained only clothing, but the second netted her underwear, socks, and a small pile of financial documents.

And then, underneath that, a pile of cash.

Naia caught her breath and fought the instinct to pack the cash away for her own use.  _ You’re not the Dark Wolf any more _ , she reminded herself. Then she sighed. Of course whoever had hired Harven had paid him in cash and not left a paper trail. It had been silly to hope otherwise, but Naia had always considered herself an optimist.

She pushed the cash aside to examine the rest of the drawer. Her eyes lit when she found two more sheets of paper. One turned out to be an unflattering photo of Alistair—a grainy printout that depicted him staring straight at the camera with a strained half-smile. The second page was a rundown of Alistair’s usual activities—including his work and home addresses.

Naia’s stomach twisted.  _ Shit. I hope he can afford to break his lease.  _ She doubted she would find anything else in the apartment, but for professionalism’s sake, she put the items back neatly where she’d found them and resumed her search. 

That search was aborted, however, when a quick glance out the window revealed some very unwelcome information. Detective Fenris Leto was climbing out of a black car parked in front of Harven’s apartment.

Naia groaned softly. She had hoped it would take Fenris longer to get all of those pesky authorizations Guardsmen needed before searching someone’s home. At least she’d gotten here before he taped the place off and put a padlock on the door. Guard padlocks took forever to pick open.

As quickly as she could, she slipped out of the room, turning the cheap lock on the doorknob as she left to give the illusion that the apartment had been undisturbed. Then she made a run for the stairwell—but climbed up instead of down.

She waited silently on the top landing, trying to breathe shallowly. There was a stain on the linoleum beneath her feet and she busied herself wondering what it was. Spilled coffee? Spilled wine? Blood? Vomit?  _ Probably vomit. _

Moments later, she heard someone enter below and cough at the unexpected stench. Light, quick footsteps ascended to the second floor; a door opened and slammed shut beneath her. For caution’s sake, Naia counted to sixty before starting her own climb back down the stairs.

_ Good luck, Detective.  _ Professional pride made her want to crack this first, but based on those papers Alistair could use all the help he could get.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Potts. Please, have a seat.”

Gorv Potts, failed robber and accomplice to the late and unlamented Sean Harven, glared at Fenris from narrowed eyes as he entered the interrogation room. He was a bony man who appeared about forty, but Fenris knew from his dossier that he was just a month shy of his thirtieth birthday—a lifetime of petty crime had not helped him age well. Despite his aggressively Ferelden name, Potts had more than a hint of Antivan about him. His olive skin and prominent, narrow nose reminded Fenris strongly of one of Danarius’s trading partners, an unpleasantly oily man named Nuncio. 

He pushed that memory back down and forced himself to focus on Potts. “The Guard was authorized to search your friend’s apartment this morning. Can you guess what I found?”

Potts frowned, then sat down in the chair opposite Fenris’s. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. His strong Ferelden accent helped Fenris banish the memory of Danarius’s friend, for which the detective found himself oddly grateful. “You’re probably gonna tell me, though.”

Fenris inclined his head. “I found evidence that Mr. Harven was hired to kill the bartender. Money, along with a dossier of information on the man your partner tried to shoot. You may be interested to know that murder for hire is a capital crime in Denerim.”

Potts shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but didn’t answer. Fenris felt his hand twitch a bit. It would have been so easy to activate the power the lyrium gave him, to use it to enter that strange state in between solid and air, to reach inside Potts’s chest and  _ make  _ him talk, as Danarius had had him do so many times. 

But, again, he pushed the thought away.  _ He is not worth that. _

“So there are two possibilities.” Fenris tapped one finger against the table, partly to ground himself, to prevent the magic in his body from flaring with his annoyance. “One is that Mr. Harven did not tell you about his contract when you agreed to rob the bar. Let me finish,” he said sharply, raising a finger as Potts opened his mouth. “While that carries a lesser penalty, it also means you would not have any information of use to the Guard. If, however, you know more about who hired Sean Harven, the Guard-Captain assures me that we will be able to charge you with a lesser offense in exchange for that information. Say, standard robbery, with no accomplice charges for the shooting.”

Potts’s brow furrowed, creating wrinkles throughout his face. Then something seemed to occur to him. He paled and shook his head. “Nope. Sean didn’t tell me nothing about the bartender. I thought we was just gonna rob him.”

“If you fear reprisal—er, if you are afraid someone will come after you,” Fenris amended, seeing the confusion on Potts’s face, “I can offer protection.”

Potts snorted. “What, you gonna come to jail with me, knife-ear?”

He smirked as he watched for Fenris’s reaction to the racial slur, but Fenris had heard far worse from far scarier people. “I see. You think whoever hired Harven can reach you in jail, then?”

Potts’s smug smile vanished. He swallowed visibly, his throat bobbing in his skinny neck. “I’m not saying anyfink.”

“Would you like me to call your lawyer to advise you?” Fenris offered.

“Nah. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me what I already know. I’m done talking.”

Fenris stood. “That is, of course, your right. Goodbye, Mr. Potts.”

He hoped, rather than expected, that Potts would have a change of heart before he left the room--but the robber stayed silent as he left.

On the way back to his desk, Fenris tried to untangle the strange knot he’d just been handed. Potts obviously knew something about why Alistair Guerrin had been targeted—but he was too afraid of whoever it was to trade that information to the Guard. 

The list of intimidating people in Denerim who might have crossed paths with Sean Harven and Gorv Potts was, alas, not short. The list of people who might plausibly be able to reach Potts in prison, however, was shorter. Eamon Guerrin was on it, but Fenris did not think the Councilman bore Alistair any ill will. 

He could think of only one group with any connection to Alistair Guerrin that might frighten silence out of a self-serving man like Gorv Potts. 

_ I think it is time I visited the Templars. _

 

* * *

 

That evening, Naia and Juliet made a full report to Alistair as he prepared to open the bar. After recounting Varric’s conversation with Anora and Naia’s own adventure in Sean Harven’s apartment—minus almost getting caught by Fenris Leto—Naia finished with her trip to Gorv Potts’s depressing home address.

“Potts has a room in a ratty boarding house,” she said, watching as he cut a pile of lemons into neat wedges. “Actually, that’s past tense. Had a room. The landlady boxed up his stuff when he got arrested and missed the week’s rent. She let me take a look through it so she could go back to her soap opera and get rid of me. No cash and just the photo—no copy of your schedule. I think Harven was the brains of the operation, such as they were.”

“Maybe the landlady pocketed the cash,” Alistair suggested.

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Naia took a sip from her glass of water. “But the point is that someone definitely hired Harven. Someone who knew your schedule. I think we should move you to a motel for a few weeks.” She paused, not sure how he’d react to the next suggestion.

Juliet picked up on the thought. “Or move you out of Denerim.”

Alistair was quiet for a moment; his handsome face was thoughtful. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I want to know what’s behind this. I can’t just run off to Highever and wait for them to find me there.”

Naia nodded. “All right. Then here’s our suggestion.” She glanced at Juliet for confirmation; her friend gave a slight nod. They’d talked this out on the way over and the plan put far more on Juliet’s shoulders. “We move you to a motel—a new one every couple of days. Juliet will stay there with you.”

“Bodyguard duty,” Juliet said easily, when Alistair’s brow furrowed. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before, when I was with the Guard.”

That was technically accurate, although it missed the real reason why Juliet and not Naia was the choice for personal bodyguard. Naia was good in a fight but she couldn’t stop bullets or light things on fire with her mind. Hopefully Juliet wouldn’t have to do either of those things, though. Much as they liked Alistair, Naia didn’t want to let him in on Juliet’s secret unless they absolutely had to.

“In the meantime,” Naia said, as Alistair wrapped his head around going into hiding, “we’ll have someone at the bar at every shift you work. My guess is they’re going to try again. Probably not inside the bar this time. That would be way too obvious after the first robbery. When they realize your apartment’s empty I think they’ll try to follow you, make it look like a random mugging. So, we follow you too.”

Alistair thought about that for a moment. “So you’re telling me I’m bait.”

Juliet winced. “Um. Yes. Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Alistair assured her with a light chuckle, reaching for a new lemon. “I’ve always wanted to be bait. Dreamed of it, really. So glad I’m finally going to get my shot.”


	8. Chapter 8

In theory, Fenris should have been able to go to the Denerim Circle—the headquarters of the city's Department of Magi, where its Enchanters and Templars made their homes—and simply ask for Alistair Guerrin's Academy records. In practice, he knew that wouldn't work. Though both organizations were part of law enforcement, cooperation between the Guard and the Templars was rare and usually tense. The Guard was expected to hand over the cases the Templars were interested in and thank them for the privilege of doing so. Actually _investigating_ Templars was unheard-of. Fenris knew that if he showed up at the Templars' doorstep asking questions about a former trainee he was unlikely to get a warm welcome, or many answers.

But he knew someone in Denerim who could grease those particular wheels. Early the next morning, Fenris found himself back in the Council building, being shown into a different top-floor office.

"Detective. Please, come in."

Councilwoman Meredith Stannard extended her hand as her assistant closed the door behind Fenris. He did his best to conceal his discomfort as he accepted it. Physical contact still made him uneasy after all these years, and Meredith had a habit of treating a handshake like a strengthening exercise. Fenris always pulled his hand away wondering if it would be swollen.

"Councilwoman. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

Meredith Stannard was a striking woman in her late forties, with bright blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and startlingly dark brows. She had been one of the first people he had met in Denerim—under rather dramatic circumstances. After his escape from Tevinter, Danarius's most vicious apprentice, a mage named Hadriana, had been tasked with recovering him. When she caught up with him at a cheap motel on the outskirts of Denerim he was almost certain the chase was over. He had been on the run for a year and was wounded and exhausted—no match for Danarius's most skilled pupil in that state.

But Hadriana, it seemed, had not been cautious with the use of her magic in Ferelden, and had caught the attention of the Templars. While Hadriana had been tracking Fenris, Agent Stannard had been tracking her.

Fenris still regretted that he had not killed Hadriana himself. In some ways he hated her even more than he hated Danarius. The magister had been cruel to break him, to ensure his obedience—there had at least been a purpose to it. Hadriana had been cruel for petty amusement. Still, the memory of Meredith Stannard shattering Hadriana's spells and putting a sword through her heart was a satisfying one.

From there, Meredith had helped Fenris find a way to build a life in Denerim. A Tevinter elf in the Templars was out of the question, but once he was settled and recovered, she had encouraged him to join the Guard—to put his skills to use chasing down the smaller apostate cases that the Order considered beneath them. A word from a Templar Knight-Commander quieted any uncertainty the Guard might have had about accepting a foreigner with such unusual abilities.

It had been a good fit, and Fenris was grateful. Though they saw little of each other now, he had cast his vote for her enthusiastically when she decided to leave the Templars and run for the Council. Alone among those he'd met in Denerim, Meredith seemed to truly understand the dangers of magic and mages, and he supported her quest to strengthen the laws that governed them.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Meredith asked briskly. She had a distinctive voice; Juliet Hawke had once described it as like listening to gravel clear its throat. "Well, I can guess. I hear Aveline Vallen has assigned you to babysit some preposterous task force about elves."

Fenris blinked. "Yes, she has. I am surprised you heard of it."

Meredith scoffed. "I met with the Guard-Captain yesterday to hear her plans for magical law enforcement in Denerim. Imagine my surprise when she told me that the Guard's most effective weapon has been assigned to clean up graffiti in the alienage."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably at the word _weapon_. It was not inaccurate, but it rankled even so.

"I told her I thought you should be reassigned," Meredith continued. "She declined." Her expression grew sour, and Fenris suspected he knew why. He couldn't imagine Aveline Vallen taking political interference kindly, even if it came from a former Templar. He hoped the Guard-Captain wouldn't hold Meredith's bluntness against him.

"I appreciate that, Councilwoman. But I am actually here on another matter. I need to speak with the Denerim Templars. I am investigating a case surrounding a former Templar recruit, and I need to learn more about his time with the Order. A copy of his records at the Academy would be ideal."

Meredith leaned back in her chair. "I see."

Fenris arched an eyebrow unconsciously. Was it his imagination, or was she not entirely pleased?

The moment passed quickly. "Of course, Detective. I would be happy to help. Give me a moment to get Greagoir on the phone." She lifted the receiver and arched an eyebrow. "And perhaps then we can talk about getting you off that ridiculous task force."

 

* * *

 

The trainee's chest visibly rose and fell as he stared at the door to the scenario room. Agent Cullen Rutherford frowned, but to Max's relief, he didn't remark on the recruit's obvious nervousness. "Do you understand the parameters of this scenario, Mr. Bartel?" he asked in his clipped Ferelden accent.

Bartel drew himself up to his full height. "One of the people inside this room is an apostate mage wanted for illegal use of magic. Female elf, dark hair, pale complexion, age somewhere around twenty-five."

Max winced. The correct scenario account was "this house is known to harbor a possible magical criminal." Part of the point of the scenario was that none of these people might be the suspect. He knew Cullen would be all over that slip in the training debrief. But this was Bartel's task, so he kept his mouth shut.

Cullen nodded towards Max. "In this scenario, Agent Trevelyan will act as your partner. He will follow your lead and do his best to intercept threats that might come your way. He will not, however, offer advice or hints on how to proceed." That part was directed at Max. "You are the lead agent on this case, Mr. Bartel. Is that clear?"

Bartel nodded. His skin was slightly flushed under his freckles; he was clearly nervous. Cullen Rutherford had that effect on people. Well, Cullen and Templar training in general.

"I will watch your progress from behind the observation glass. You may begin at any time." With that, Cullen pushed open the side door and exited out into the hall, leaving Max and Bartel alone in the small foyer to the scenario room.

Bartel took a deep breath. Max smiled at him. "Remember: it's just training. If there are mages in the room"— _oops, that was probably a hint_ —"they won't throw anything that can do serious damage. Evaluate, investigate, respond. You've got this."

The pep talk seemed to soothe Bartel. He looked at least fourteen percent less likely to throw up, anyway, so Max counted it as a victory. "All right. Here it goes nothing." He gave an authoritative knock at the door. "Templar Order. Open this door, please."

Soft scuffling came from inside the room. "Uh. Hold on, sir. Agent. Detective. Can—can I see some identification?"

"Sure—I mean, certainly."

Bartel reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and promptly dropped his badge on the ground. Max couldn't conceal a grimace as he bent to pick it up. He hoped Cullen wouldn't count that as illegal help. Still, not a great start for Bartel.

He managed to get the badge back into Bartel's hand just as the door opened. A suspicious-looking dwarven woman scowled up at him, her brown-gray hair in disarray and her unflattering clothing rumpled. After a startled beat, Bartel lowered the badge to her eye level.

The dwarf sniffed, then stood back. "I suppose you can come inside. I'm Lillian. This is my boarding house," she said in a voice laced with whiskey and a few too many late nights.

Max made a mental note to congratulate Lillian on her ability to get into character.

Bartel stepped inside with Max close behind. Although this was Bartel's training exercise, Max took the opportunity to look around—every scenario looked different. This was a pretty convincing one. He and Bartel had entered into what looked like a living room, complete with couches, a television, and even a half-eaten plate of crackers. The huge one-way mirror on the left wall almost looked like a normal part of the decor. No one matching the description was in sight.

Bartel turned to the landlady. "I'm looking for a woman, elven, around twenty-five years old, black hair and pale complexion. Does anyone matching that description live here?"

Lillian scowled. "Yeah, I got some elves. Can't tell ages with you tall folks, though." She crossed back to the table and picked up another cracker.

"Any women?"

"All women." Cracker crumbs flew from Lillian's mouth. "I only allow women in my home. They're neater. You men are hell on the floors for some reason."

Max choked back a laugh. Bartel, however, was taking this seriously; he was visibly annoyed by her unhelpfulness. "I assure you, ma'am …"

He stopped mid-sentence, however, when a door at the back of the room opened up. A striking elf with fair skin, broad cheekbones, and dark, straight hair pushed open the door. She was wearing a sales clerk's nametag and collared shirt a size or two too large for her frame. "Lillian, are you going to take care of the heat in my room like I asked? I won't pay rent until you …"

"Templar Order!" Bartel shouted. "Do not reach for your magic, do not attempt to cast a spell. You are hereby bound to our authority for questioning, until such time as …"

The suspected mage turned to flee. Bartel ran forward and caught her wrist, slapping a handcuff over it. It was, Max had to admit, a pretty smooth move for a trainee. Unfortunately, it was undercut when Lillian pulled a gun from underneath her table and took aim. A second later, Bartel yelped as a paintball exploded against his side.

Max drew his own weapon, but as he expected, Cullen quickly turned up the bright lights, revealing his place behind the mirror. "End scenario," he said.

_Poor Bartel_ , Max thought. For a first timer, it wasn't a disaster, exactly. But it wasn't the smooth ride an ambitious would-be Templar would have hoped for, either.

Bartel turned around, wincing as he looked down at the enormous yellow splatter on his arm.

_OK, it was pretty close to a disaster._

Cullen soon entered the room from the same door that their "suspect" had used. "Would you like to tell me what you think went wrong, Mr. Bartel?" he asked, in a voice that would have had sterner men crapping their pants.

"Um. I—I didn't tell my partner to secure the room. I didn't see the gun until it was too late. But I was focused on the criminal …"

"The _suspect_ , Mr. Bartel," Cullen corrected frostily. "She matches your description, yes, but the description is vague. You had no reason to bind her for questioning."

"She tried to run!"

"Yes, but not until after you'd announced yourself. You should have gathered more information first before turning the encounter into a confrontation." Cullen crossed his arms. "More seriously: you dismissed the landlady as a threat because she did not fit your description."

"She's a dwarf! She couldn't have been a mage." Max could hear the unspoken _that's not fair_ in Bartel's voice. It put a serious dent in his sympathy for Bartel.

"She still neutralized you in the scenario," Cullen pointed out. "Magical criminals aren't the only kind you'll encounter in the field, Bartel. That was rather the point of this exercise."

The trainee's face fell. Max felt sorry for him again. "But you handled the landlady well, up until the confrontation," he interjected. "Calm, respectful."

Cullen gave Max a Look. But suddenly, the 'suspect' spoke up. "And you apprehended your target efficiently when she—er, I—ran." She curled her left hand around her right wrist, rubbing the spot where he had grabbed her.

Cullen noticed. "Enchanter Surana. Are you injured?"

The Enchanter dropped her wrist as if it had burned her. "Not at all," she replied coolly, raising her chin just a fraction. That was common among the Enchanters, Max had —they were even more unwilling than Templars to show any hint of weakness.

Cullen nodded at her, then turned back to Bartel. "That's enough for now, I suppose. Trade in that jacket for a clean one and write up your practice incident report, including an analysis of how the situation might have had a more favorable outcome. Full debrief tomorrow morning at eight sharp."

Bartel nodded and left the room, the tatters of his dignity trailing behind him.

When he shut the door, Max turned to Lillian. "Nicely done, Lills! I didn't know you were such an actress."

The dwarf grinned. "I love scenarios. Closest I'll probably get to being in the field." Lillian was technically an agent, but a largely desk-bound one. Dwarves couldn't learn the Templar arts. Lillian had been recruited and employed largely to smooth things over when their investigations took them into contact with other dwarves. Max couldn't help but feel that she was underused. Whether or not she could throw a Smite, she was still a crack shot, and smart to boot.

Cullen, meanwhile, was looking down at his clipboard with a frown on his face. "You picked up his badge for him."

Max rolled his eyes. "Come on, Cullen. I'd have done the same in the field."

"You coddle them," the other Templar said, raising his eyes from the clipboard to glare at him.

"And you scare the crap out of them. It's why they made us partners, remember?" Max grinned. "So the trainees would stop playing practical jokes on you."

Lillian laughed. "Remember that time they stapled all of your sleeves shut?" she teased.

Cullen's face clearly indicated that he did remember, and did not enjoy the memory. Behind him, Enchanter Surana looked similarly unamused. Her face was as smooth and expressionless as usual, but her dark, mono-lidded eyes were ever so slightly narrowed, ready to glare at anyone who found amusement in such a childish display of insubordination.

_No wonder he's got a crush on her_ _,_ Max thought wryly.

"And ever since I got here, the pranks have stopped. Admit it, I make your life easier." Max spread his hands and smiled genially. "Sometimes a candidate just needs a little encouragement to make it over a stumble. You'll make sure only the good ones make it through in the end."

Cullen's expression un-stiffened ever so slightly. "I suppose positive reinforcement doesn't hurt in promising cases." He made a slight face. "Bartel, on the other hand …"

"It was his first scenario. He's young. Maybe he'll surprise us," Max said, clapping his partner on the shoulder. "We done here? We've got four more candidates coming in for their scenarios."


	9. Chapter 9

By the end of the five scenarios, Mei Surana had been handcuffed once, prematurely shot once, and escaped twice. The only recruit who managed to arrest her and disarm Lillian was a severe-looking woman named Taura. Cullen had seemed pleased about that, but Mei did not share his satisfaction. She’d overheard the way Taura talked about mages when she was with other trainees; she was ruthlessly ambitious, and extremely fond of Tranquility.

Mei was looking forward to a pleasant, quiet afternoon when the final scenario concluded. It was not to be. When she returned to her room Emili was standing in front of it, her hands folded and her face serene.

“Good evening, Enchanter Surana.”

Mei’s stomach roiled. _Emili. I’m so sorry._

“Hello, Emili. How are you?”

She always asked that question when she saw Emili, and Emili always answered it the same way. “I am well.”

She seemed to mean it, or at least, there was no pain or dissatisfaction in her expression. The dour, sarcastic young woman who had begun her Enchanter training at Mei’s side was gone, severed from her magic—and her emotions—by the Tranquil’s brand on her forehead. The bright red hair dye she’d favored before her failed Harrowing had now grown out; only the tips of her long, mousy hair still bore hints of pink.

“The Grand Enchanter is here. She has asked me to find you.”

Mei didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “What is Fiona doing in Denerim?”

“I am sorry. I do not know,” Emili said placidly. “She is in the top floor guest office. Would you like me to escort you?”

Mei felt her chest constrict. _No. Please, Maker, no._ “That’s all right, Emili. I know the way.”

As she began her walk to the Circle’s office wing, Mei cursed herself for a coward. She did know the way, of course. But she hadn’t released Emili to spare her the trouble of making the walk.

She just couldn’t stand the sight of her.

*

“Mei. Come in!”

Mei relaxed into a genuine smile as Fiona stood from her desk. They shook hands warmly—Fiona was not a hugger, one of the many things Mei liked about her—as Mei settled into the spare office chair.

“You have been missed in Montsimmard.”

“Have I?” Mei returned wryly. _Somehow I doubt that very much._ Although she had valued Fiona’s mentorship, she had never felt quite at home during her years in Orlais. Her Ferelden accent marked her out as painfully foreign, and while Orlesian prejudice against elves was cloaked in layers of politeness and euphemism, it was there and it was bitter. Combine that with her natural reticence, and Mei hadn’t made many friends at Montsimmard. She had jumped at Fiona’s offer to transfer back to Denerim after earning her Enchanter’s rank.

“By some.” Fiona smiled. “Chief among them, myself.” She leaned back in her chair. “And so. How have you found Denerim?”

Mei nodded. _Straight to the point, I see._ This was, after all, why Fiona had transferred her. A new Grand Enchanter needed trusted eyes and ears in every Circle. “Things here are unsettled,” she said candidly. “First Enchanter Irving is respected, but there is a growing faction that wants to see him replaced.”

“With whom?” Fiona asked shrewdly.

“Senior Enchanter Uldred.” Mei kept her expression neutral, though she had opinions on this subject. Irving was steady and experienced, but Uldred—Uldred was smart, and charismatic, and ambitious. _I may not like him, but I understand why they’re drawn to him._ “He’s been talking about sending more Enchanters out into the field, letting us use our skills regularly instead of being called upon only when the Templars can’t handle a case on their own.”

Fiona nodded, her eyebrows raised in appreciation. “I can see how that would be appealing.” The Templars only authorized an Enchanter partner for the most dangerous of cases, so there were never enough field assignments to go around to all of the Enchanters who wanted them. Most mages were desperate for their turn to leave the Circle—even if it was to hunt down criminals.

“Uldred will almost certainly stop by to say hello. He won’t miss an opportunity to lobby for the job,” Mei warned. “Is that why you came? You heard the First Enchanter was under some pressure?”

Fiona took a deep breath. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I am afraid not. Mei—I must ask your help on a personal matter.”

Mei blinked rapidly. _Fiona has personal matters?_ The older woman had dedicated her life to the Circle, to becoming the most politically daring Grand Enchanter the Circles of Magi had ever appointed. The idea that she had personal business was startling, to say the least.

“Of course. Anything.”

“For the past month I have been receiving these letters by mail.” Fiona pulled a folder from her bag and set it on the table. Mei pulled it towards her and peered down at the pages.

 _Mage rights now!_ read one of the letters.

 

 

> _All mages should be afforded the right to use their Maker-given talents, whether or not they bow to the Circles and accept the Templars’ leash. You stand with our oppressors and legitimize a corrupt system, Grand Deceiver. LEAVE THE LUXURIES AND PRIVILEGES OF YOUR TRAITOROUS POST. IT IS YOUR ONLY OPTION._

The next few letters all followed a similar theme. Fiona, as the highest-ranking mage in a Circle, was a traitor to her fellow mages and should resign, “or else.”

The final letter got more specific.

 

 

> _Resign your post and announce your support for the destruction of the Circles or the consequences WILL fall on those you care about._

“Those you care about?” Mei repeated, her brow furrowing. “Do you have an idea of whom that might be?”

“I assume people like you, frankly,” Fiona said. “My former students and proteges. I have no lovers and no family to speak of.” She stared down at the table, seeming almost sad for a moment.

“Denerim postage,” Mei said thoughtfully, focusing on the stack of envelopes interspersed between the letters themselves. “So that’s why you came here.” She looked up. “Do you think there’s a connection to this Circle?”

Fiona opened her hands in a half shrug. “There could be. The tone suggests they come from apostates outside the Circle, however. I am planning to ask Knight-Commander Greagoir to authorize a Templar to investigate—with you on field assignment, if I can manage it. Who would you recommend?”

 _Cullen Rutherford._ She almost said that aloud, but she caught herself just in time. “Max Trevelyan,” she suggested instead. She concealed a weary little groan at the thought of working with him. The man was utterly clueless about mages and far too convinced of his own charm. But he was not a complete asshole, which made him not that bad for a Templar. “He’s a rising star, Greagoir likes him, and he keeps a cool head.”

Fiona pressed her lips together, making mental note of the name. “Done. I’ll do what I can to get you in the field with him. And in the meantime—”

Mei nodded. “I’ll keep my eyes open for anything odd around here.”

*

Of course, there was one odd thing Mei wouldn’t be sharing.

She kept her expression calm and her steps steady as she returned to her room. It had not been too long, and he was patient; perhaps she would not be too late.

She pretended to fumble with the lock to her door as another mage passed, waiting until the hallway was empty to open it. Finally, she felt it safe to swing the door open, to slide herself through quickly and push it closed behind her.

As the door clicked shut, Cullen rose from her bed.

He had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie; his hair was a bit out of place, probably because he’d been running his hands through it. Cullen Rutherford was never rumpled, but this was as close as she’d seen him, and Mei couldn’t hide her smile.

“I was starting to think I’d missed my chance,” he said softly, returning her smile with one of his own.

“I was called away for a meeting.” Mei stood on her toes and brushed his mouth with hers. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”

Then she stepped back—not far, just far enough so that he could see her reach for the top button on her jacket. Enchanters wore distinctive navy suits, loose in cut and secured with a line of buttons beginning at the left shoulder.

Mei unfastened the jacket slowly, holding Cullen’s eyes. She could see his breath quicken as the garment began to open, revealing the thin undershirt beneath.

When the buttons were undone, Cullen took a step towards her, lifting his hands to guide the fabric over her shoulders and onto the floor. Mei stepped readily into his arms and kissed him hungrily, willing herself to forget everything else.

*

Afterwards, as they lay in bed together, their hands twined, Mei looked over at Cullen and saw the familiar little line between his eyes. Her heart twisted. She had trained in this Circle, and had spent a good chunk of those years pining over Cullen Rutherford from a distance. When she transferred back from Montsimmard, she had made the wonderful discovery that she liked Cullen the man even more than she’d liked Cullen the boy—and that she had not been the only one pining all those years ago.

But Cullen Rutherford had never broken a rule in his life until a month ago, the day they’d kissed in a darkened Circle hallway. Fraternization between mages and Templars was strictly forbidden. Mei knew that bits and pieces of uncertainty floated to the surface of his mind more often than he wanted to admit.

She tried not to let it bother her, though part of her wished he could just be _happy_ and not haunted with guilt. The rules against their relationship were meant to stop Templars who wanted to abuse mages, not the consummation of a decade-long mutual crush. But nothing she could say seemed to take away that little nagging sense that he was doing something wrong—perhaps because Mei herself had itched to break every rule in the Circle for years and years.

So instead of trying to argue away his guilt, she turned on her side and nestled closer, draping her arm across his chest and smiling up at him.

He smiled back, his face relaxing. “So what was the meeting about?”

“Fiona’s here. She wanted a recommendation for a Templar—I guess she’s been receiving threats.” That news would be all over the Circle within hours of Max getting the assignment, so Mei didn’t feel any guilt over telling Cullen early. “I wanted to recommend you, but I suggested Max instead.”

Cullen nodded, quiet relief on his face that she had not hinted at their secret. “Max will do well. I’m sorry she’s being threatened. I know she’s a friend.”

“You’re sweet,” Mei said softly. She pushed herself up on one elbow to brush her fingers through his wiry curls. “Fiona’s tough as nails, though. I don’t think this will seriously upset her.”

Cullen grinned up at her. “I think I see why you two like each other so much. I’ve always admired tough women, you know.”

Mei’s stomach did a ridiculous little flip. She didn’t think she would ever tire of hearing him say things like that and knowing that he meant them. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she murmured, bending her head to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

 After Mei had gone, Fiona sat back in her chair. She was oddly glad that the letters were coming from Denerim—she trusted Mei as she trusted few other mages.

Just not with the full story.

She drummed her fingers briefly against the top of the table. _Don’t look_ , she told herself. _Don’t look_.

But, as if of their own will, her fingers slipped into her pocket, withdrawing and unfolding the one delivery she had withheld from her former protege—the one that had finally persuaded her to act.

It was a newspaper clipping from the _Denerim Courant,_ a small one from the back pages of the paper. The article described a shooting at a bar and quoted the bartender on duty that night: Alistair Guerrin. According to the article, Alistair had only narrowly escaped being shot during an attempted robbery.

At the top, in red ink, someone had written three words in block letters.

_YOU WERE WARNED._

_*_

“She’s here,” Uldred said, a satisfied smile on his lips as he leaned back in his office chair. The dim lights shone against his bald pate, giving him an almost yellow glow. “You were right. All it took was a little push.”

Across from him, Enchanter Marcus Amell nodded serenely at the praise. “And you didn’t believe me when I said the great Fiona had a secret son.”

“I never disbelieved you,” Uldred corrected coolly, with a little wave of his hand. “I just said that _if_ it were true, it would be hard to prove, and harder still to find the boy. But yes, I underestimated you. I will not discount your usefulness again.”

That last sentence sounded strange in Uldred’s mouth, as if there were an echo in his voice. Behind the older man’s eyes, Marcus could see a faint glimmer of … something. He frowned, uneasy for a reason he could not quite identify, but he pushed his uneasiness away. _Uldred’s the only one who can pull this off. It doesn’t matter if he says something weird every once in a while._

“So should we give her a reason to stay?” Marcus asked mildly, as if he wasn’t euphemistically suggesting murder.

Uldred gave him a thin, close-lipped smile. “Yes. I believe we should.”


	10. Chapter 10

Max slept like a rock the night after the scenarios and missed his early-morning workout for the first time in over a year. He was more annoyed with himself than was perhaps entirely warranted. Before he’d started at the Academy—the one in Ostwick, not this one—his uncle Edward, a decorated Knight-Commander, had sat him down for some frank advice.

“Everyone of note at any Circle knows who the Trevelyans are. You’re going to get treated better and promoted faster because of your last name,” his uncle had warned. “But unless you’ve been justifying those promotions by working twice as hard as anyone else, your career will be dead in its tracks before you turn thirty.”

Max had briefly been tempted to just let his career stall out. But then he weighed the appeal of laziness against the heat he’d take from his family, and decided on daily workouts at dawn and saying yes every time a crappy assignment came along. But today, he was grateful to have the extra rest that came from missing his usual training, because after breakfast Greagoir had not one but two crappy assignments for him. 

“Meredith Stannard is calling in a favor. I’m not sure I owe her favors, frankly, but it’s less annoying to simply give her what she wants,” Greagoir explained wearily after summoning Max to his office. “The Detective will be here at ten. Give him the tour, make him feel important, then walk him into your office for a redacted copy of Guerrin’s transcript. We’ll have it on your desk.”

“Can’t we just give him the whole thing? He’s going to notice bits missing,” Max warned. “And it’s not like Alistair was a problem trainee. Wait, was he?” He’d liked the younger man, but he couldn’t pretend to know everything about him—he had only been tapped as Cullen’s partner during Alistair’s last year at the Academy.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Greagoir said with a dismissive shake of his head. “A few reprimands for smarting off to instructors, but nothing terrible. We just prefer to keep details of the Academy’s training confidential. Classified. You understand.”

_ Yeah, I understand that I’m being asked to hand half a document to a guy who already thinks we might have something to hide,  _ Max thought wryly.  _ Guess they think I’m likeable enough to pull it off. _

He’d think about Greagoir’s other assignment—investigate threats against the Grand bloody Enchanter with her frostily silent protégé by his side—later.

By nine-fifty-five Max was standing in the visitor’s entrance to the main Circle building, his silver-grey suit neatly pressed and his tie cinched snug around his collar for once. The door opened, releasing a blast of cold air into the entryway, and Max couldn’t help staring at the man pushing it open.

The Detective—it had to be the detective, he was wearing tailored black wool and a somber expression—was an elf, covered in silver tattoos. He was also one of the best-looking men Max had ever seen, his olive skin smooth under the markings, his features chiseled and symmetrical, his mouth fuller than most elves’ and his wide eyes a startling dark green. 

Max forced himself not to study the pattern of tattoos curving around that face. “Detective Leto? I’m Agent Maxwell Trevelyan,” he said, offering his hand as the Detective stripped off his gloves. “I’m one of the Agents who works with Academy trainees at this Circle.”

The detective brushed his palm against Max’s in a strange half-handshake. Max felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the Detective’s good looks.  _ Lyrium. Andraste’s ass, it’s  _ that  _ Detective. Of course it is.  _

“A pleasure, Agent Trevelyan,” the elf replied evenly, in a baritone voice that would have made a much uglier man desirable. He met Max’s eyes but did not return his smile.

“I’m here to show you around and help tell you a bit about Alistair Guerrin’s time at the Academy.” Max wondered how long it would be before the Detective realized the second part was a lie.

“I appreciate the time.” Detective Leto brushed a few ice crystals from the lapel of his coat. “Shall we begin?”

“Of course,” Max said quickly, trying to imitate the other man’s no-nonsense tone. “Please, follow me.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris had only met a handful of Templars since leaving Tevinter. Most of them were rather like Meredith: Pale, severe, somewhere in their forties. The man waiting for Fenris in the entryway to the Denerim Circle’s main building, however, looked more like the star of a movie about Templars than an actual, real-life Templar Agent. He was in his late twenties, tall—at least six foot three—and broad-shouldered, with deep brown skin, a neatly shaved head, and a small black goatee. He wore the silver-grey Templar suit, tailored to perfection, and a red tie that set off the crisp white of his shirt. His smile was easy and charming, which immediately put Fenris on edge. He was always uncomfortable around people who were used to being liked. He had little experience with that feeling himself. 

“So. This is the main office building,” Agent Trevelyan said as they walked east, down a brightly-lit hallway lined with doors. “The mages keep their offices in the west wing, and the Templars in the east. The top two floors contain our laboratories and training facilities. The adult Agents and Enchanters sleep in the large dormitory to the south. As a trainee, Alistair would have slept in one of the smaller dormitories to the west. We keep the mages and the Templar recruits as separate as we can, while still allowing for Templar help and supervision should the younger mages need it.” 

“I see,” Fenris replied, for lack of anything else to say.  _ Is this a tour? Why is he giving me a tour? _

Agent Trevelyan seemed to sense the thought. “We thought it might help you to get a sense of the day-to-day here at the Circle.”

“Ah.”

Not for the first time, Fenris’s minimalist responses seemed to make his companion uncomfortable. “So. Uh. You’re a friend of Meredith Stannard’s?” 

Fenris had no idea how to answer that. “I owe her a debt,” he replied uneasily. “And yes, I voted for her.” He assumed that, at least, would please a Templar.

Agent Trevelyan chuckled. “Well, thanks for that. I didn’t know her well myself—I only got here about two years ago, not long before she left. But things have been a lot calmer around here since she became a Councilwoman.”

Fenris had to conceal his surprise. He had assumed that the Templars would be disappointed to lose someone with Meredith’s skill and passion. 

The Templar didn’t seem to notice Fenris’s reaction as he pushed open the right half of the double door at the end of the hallway. “This is our armory. As you may know, the Templars …”

“Use swords. I am aware,” Fenris finished, looking around the room. Blades of every shape and size, all gleaming and sharp, glittered at him from neat racks lining the massive, windowless room. They were organized by length, with the shortest daggers towards the back of the room and the largest broadswords near this door. Every blade was tagged, and a stack of filing cabinets towards the back suggested careful records.

“Right. It turns out guns don’t mix well with the Templar arts,” Agent Trevelyan continued. “A Smite packs a punch. It’ll snap a trigger in half or shatter a firing pin if you’re carrying a pistol—and that’s if you’re lucky and the gun doesn’t explode in your face.”

Fenris lay an experimental hand on the hilt of one of the large broadswords close to the door. For a while, he had carried something similar—though not nearly so pretty as this one, which was clean and bright and bore no signs of wear. He had stolen his blade from a pile of belongings being carted out of a dead man’s home somewhere in rural Orlais during his time on the run. He now found himself wondering if the dead man had been a Templar.

“We don’t get many elves in the Templars, but the ones I know tended to go for the daggers,” Agent Trevelyan said, politely trying to caution him away from embarrassing himself.

Fenris felt his annoyance surge. With practiced ease, he drew the broadsword from its rack and lifted it to the light, as if to examine it closer.

“Or you could just grab the biggest sword in the room.” Agent Trevelyan’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Wow. I need to know more about your training regimen.”

“My ‘training regimen’ involved having raw lyrium forced underneath my skin. I do not recommend it,” Fenris said coolly, returning the sword to its proper place. “The pain was agonizing.” 

For the first time, Agent Max Trevelyan seemed at a loss for words. He stared at Fenris, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, abashed. “Oh. Um. I’m sorry.”

Fenris grimaced.  _ I am annoyed, but that is no reason for discourtesy.  _ “Agent Trevelyan, may I be blunt?” he said, turning to face the Templar. “I simply want to know more about Alistair Guerrin’s time in the Templar Academy. I must imagine that a Templar has more important things to do than play tour guide. I am content to take the transcript and follow up when I have more specific questions.”

For a moment Agent Trevelyan was still, then something shifted in his posture. He loosened his tie a bit, seemingly unconsciously, then locked eyes with Fenris. “That transcript is going to be about eighty percent blacked out. And that’s if they’re still a bit scared of Stannard. If they’re not it might be closer to ninety.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Was Mr. Guerrin’s time at the Academy so notable?” For a moment, he had the wild hope that he was close to solving the case—here, perhaps, was the secret that would justify paying money to kill a bartender.

But the Agent shook his head. “Not at all. They just don’t want anyone outside the Templars to know the details of how we’re trained.” He frowned. “What did Alistair do, exactly?”

“Nothing,” Fenris assured him. “He was the victim in a shooting. Attempted victim, I should say,” he added, realizing Agent Trevelyan’s face had tensed with concern. “He was not injured. But we are looking into the possibility that it wasn’t random.”

“Glad he’s all right,” the Templar said seriously. “He seemed like a nice guy. But off the record, there wasn’t anything remarkable about Alistair that I’m aware of, except the fact that he declined his commission.”

“Is that rare?” Fenris asked.

“Well, yeah.” The Agent seemed surprised by the question. “The trainees get up at five a.m., sit through lectures and tests in the morning, and then have hours of physical training in the afternoon. You don’t pass all your courses and make it to the end unless you’re serious.”

That matched with Alistair’s description, more or less; the bartender had said that being a Templar trainee involved having fireballs thrown at your head every day for three years. “Could Alistair’s family connections, perhaps, have persuaded the Templars to make his path easier?” Fenris suggested. He pulled out his notebook, half expecting the Templar to object, but no objection came. 

Agent Trevelyan shook his head. “No. Cullen Rutherford runs this branch of the Academy. If he thought Alistair was trying to skate through on his father’s name Cullen would have personally drop-kicked him out the front door.”

Fenris drew a circle around Cullen Rutherford’s name. “What do you remember of Alistair?”

The Templar frowned thoughtfully. “Jokes, mostly. Bad ones. He kind of kept to himself and acted like he was hanging on to his spot by his fingernails. But he was always solidly in the top half of his class. He had a lot of natural talent with the Templar arts. He could break spells better than some of the Agents, and they’re taking lyrium.”

Fenris scribbled down  _ talent with Templar skills.  _ He had to admit that surprised him. “Do you know why he kept to himself?”

Agent Trevelyan paused a moment before answering. “I didn’t know him well. But I think he didn’t like it here very much. Most of the trainees fall into the same handful of categories. Ambitious law-and-order types, anti-magic fanatics, adventure-seekers, and screwups from wealthy families. The screwups usually wash out in the first year. None of that described Alistair.” Another pause. “I do remember that he talked to the mages more than most trainees do.”

A spark of hope flared in Fenris’s chest. Finally, something unusual. “Could I speak to the mages he knew?”

The Agent’s eyebrows drew together. “I mean, more than usual is still not very much. But I’ll see if I can remember anyone who might have known him well. In the meantime, why don’t we go get your mostly-useless copy of his records?”

 

* * *

 

Max’s head was spinning as he led Fenris out the back door and towards the training facility where he and Cullen kept their offices. Fenris Leto must have been a damn good detective. Five minutes under that intense, disapproving stare and he’d cracked like an egg. All right, he hadn’t spilled anything important, but he was pretty sure he’d said more than Greagoir wanted his underlings handing out to any Detective who came knocking. 

That thought annoyed Max. It was outright stupid that the Templar leadership would be so stubborn about helping a Guard investigation. Alistair Guerrin could have been one of them—and more to the point, he was a decent man aside from the bad jokes. He had a right to know why someone was trying to kill him.

_ Career dead by thirty,  _ he reminded himself.

But what the hell. One day of minor insubordination wasn’t going to cancel out years of glowing records. Probably.

Max was feeling rather pleased about his minor flirtation with rebellion until he pushed open the door to the office he shared with Cullen. Cullen wasn’t in, but Enchanter Mei Surana was perched on the edge of a plastic office chair, her hands folded expectantly. 

Something about Enchanter Surana made Max nervous. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never seen her show more than half an emotion. Or maybe it was the fact that she could shatter bricks with an ice spell in the time it took most mages to summon a snowflake. Max wasn’t sure if it was ironic or inevitable that someone with her chilly personality had such talent with cold magic.

“Enchanter,” he said respectfully as she stood.

“Agent Trevelyan. I had hoped to steal a moment of your time, but I can come back later.” Her eyes drifted to Fenris.

“Enchanter Mei Surana, this is Detective Fenris Leto of the Denerim Guard. He’s here investigating an attack on a former trainee,” Max said easily. Polite social interactions, he could do.

His eyes fell on a plain white envelope on his desk, tottering on the peak of a pile that he’d sworn he would clean up soon. “Ah. Here’s your terrible transcript, as promised.”

Fenris opened the envelope flap with one swipe of his thumb, then pulled the document half-out and grimaced. “Eighty percent. It appears Councilwoman Stannard still has some influence,” he murmured.

Max chuckled. Then something occurred to him. “Hey, Enchanter Surana. Do you remember a trainee named Alistair Guerrin? He finished this summer and declined a commission.”

The Enchanter shook her head, setting her straight black hair swinging around her shoulders. “I’m afraid not. He would have left around the time I transferred back here.”

Fenris spoke up, then. “We believe he may have had friends among the mages. Can you think of anyone who might know who they were?”

To Max’s surprise, he saw a spark of interest in the Enchanter’s expression. “Yes. But it will not be a pleasant interview,” she warned. “His name is Anders. He has something of a reputation for clashing with Templars. He’s also the biggest gossip in the Circle. If there’s anything to know about your trainee he probably knows it. But he won’t be able to resist antagonizing you, or Agent Trevelyan.” Her mouth almost—but not quite—curved in a smile. “I believe the usual phrase is ‘problem with authority.’”

Max was pretty sure that was the longest speech he had ever heard Mei Surana deliver.

“All right. Let’s talk with Anders.” Max flashed the Enchanter a grin. “You too, if you’re free. Maybe he’ll be nicer with a fellow mage in the room.”

Surana’s expression indicated that she doubted it, but nevertheless she joined the two men as they filed out of the office.

 

* * *

 

Fenris felt a bit as if he had accidentally ventured into a cavern, and was winding his way deeper and deeper into its depths as he tried to get out. This was what he had wanted—to learn more about Alistair Guerrin’s time at the Academy, to see if his years there might hold the key to this mystery. But spending this much time close to this much magic was starting to make him tense. Mages here were better controlled and better monitored than the ones in his Tevinter homeland, admittedly, but he could not help his instinctive unease—especially with the cool, superior Mei Surana trailing behind them as they walked.

Anders was not in his office, which did not appear to surprise Enchanter Surana. They sought him out in the dormitory next, a large brick building with windows attractively framed in white wood. Fenris was surprised at how shabby the inside was, however. The carpet in the halls was worn and grey, the paint fading, and the hallways dark and old. Magisters in Tevinter lived in luxury, but evidently mages and Templars alike were restricted to much plainer quarters in a Circle.

“Here,” Enchanter Surana said at last, stopping in front of a plain wooden door in the middle of the third floor. By some unspoken agreement, she stepped aside for Agent Trevelyan to knock. 

The big Templar rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “Enchanter?” he called. “It’s Max Trevelyan. I need—”

The door flew open before the Templar could finish his sentence.

Anders was a slender man around thirty with sharp, handsome features and a messy blonde half-ponytail. He was wearing the usual Enchanter suit pants but had not put on his jacket; his sleeveless undershirt revealed a torso covered in wiry muscle. Over his shoulder, Fenris could see a narrow, rumpled bed in a dark room with only one small window.

The mage’s mouth twisted sardonically as he looked at Agent Trevelyan, his expression somewhere between amusement and contempt. “Morning, Max. What did I do this time?”

“Shockingly, nothing.” Agent Trevelyan grinned, seemingly unaware of the other man’s annoyance. Fenris was beginning to suspect, however, that the obliviousness was largely feigned. “We’re hoping you can help with something. This is Detective Fenris Leto of the Denerim City Guard. And of course, you know Enchanter Surana.”

Anders nodded briefly at Surana before focusing his gaze on Fenris. “Detective. We so rarely get visitors in the Circle. You should have called. I would have put on a shirt.” He gave Fenris an obviously fake smile.

_ He is trying to make me uncomfortable.  _ It was going to take more than that, however. 

Fenris met the mage’s eyes coolly. “I apologize for arriving unannounced,” he replied. “I am investigating an attempt on the life of a former Templar trainee.”

Amell arched an eyebrow. “Am I a suspect?”

“Should you be?” Fenris countered, pulling out his notebook.

“Ah. Agent Trevelyan must have told you that I don’t play nice with the Templars. Not nice enough for their taste, anyway.” Anders snorted.

Enchanter Surana suddenly spoke up. “Actually, I was the one who mentioned your name. They think Alistair Guerrin might have had friends among the mages. I told them if he did, you would know.”

Anders’s eyebrows rose. “Enchanter Surana, I’m flattered you think I might be useful.” He sounded almost sincere. “What was the name again?”

“Alistair Guerrin,” she replied. “He graduated from the Academy last summer but declined a place among the Templars.”

Anders crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb, his eyebrows drawn down thoughtfully. “I do remember him. Good-looking guy, kind of a joker, right? He was pretty chummy with the mages. Asked them how they were doing, what their names were—you know, inappropriate personal questions like that.” He looked over at Agent Trevelyan. “Usually Max and his friends do a better job of teaching the trainees that mages aren’t people. Guess it didn’t stick with Guerrin.”

The Templar stiffened, but didn’t respond.

“Would you describe any of the mages as particular friends of Mr. Guerrin’s?” Fenris asked, his pen poised.

“Nope. Thing is, most mages don’t want to get that close to Templars either.” Ever so briefly, Anders’s eyes flicked over to Surana. “We’d return the pleasantries, sure. But no one really wants to be friends with someone who might slap you with a Tranquil’s brand in a few years.” He shrugged. “Sorry I can’t be more help.” He did not sound particularly sorry.

“I appreciate your time, Enchanter,” Fenris lied. “Here, I’ll give you my card. Please call me if anything comes to mind.”

Anders accepted the card with an odd smile. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’ll definitely hang on to this.”


	11. Chapter 11

Max Trevelyan was being uncharacteristically quiet as they escorted Detective Leto back to the Circle’s office building. The conversation with Anders seemed to have unsettled him. Mei found herself deeply annoyed.  _ Maker’s sake, that can’t be the first time a mage has told him that to his face, can it? _

_ Hm. Maybe it can. _

But could he really be so clueless? How could you live in a Circle and not realize it was a prison sentence for the mages there, that the Templars were more like guards than guardians? 

Oh, of course, the mages were technically there of their own free will. They could leave the Circle at any time. All it would cost them was their license to use magic. Then, because they’d been raised and trained in the Circle, they’d have to go out and try to scrape together a living with no skills besides using magic. Oh, and if they ever touched their magic again, even for a healing spell, they’d be criminals, lucky to avoid a Tranquil’s brand. The choice between life in the Circle and taking your chances in the outside world wasn’t really much of a choice, in the end.

Cullen understood that. She thought. Mei found herself wondering uncomfortably how Cullen would have reacted to Anders’s words, to hearing someone say straight out that most Templars didn’t treat mages like people.

“I’m sorry Anders wasn’t more helpful,” Max said at last.

Detective Leto shrugged eloquently. “It was worth the attempt. I appreciate your assistance.” This, he directed at both Max and Mei—though he did not quite meet Mei’s eyes.

“What does Alistair make of all this?” Max asked curiously.

“Very little. At least, very little that he has shared with me.” Detective Leto frowned.

“You think he’s hiding something?” Max suggested.

“I think he is reluctant to cooperate, for reasons I do not entirely understand.” The Detective smiled faintly. “It is not the first time, however. I hope he may be more forthcoming if I tell him I have evidence that the robbery was not random.”

“What if I talked to him?” Max suggested. “Enchanter Surana and I have to head into the city anyway for another case. We’d be happy to see if we can dig a bit more.”

_ Why on earth would we do that?  _ Mei had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep that thought from escaping her lips. Interesting as the case sounded, it was not their business. They had to focus on tracking down the source of Fiona’s threats. But Max was almost compulsive about trying to make everyone like him. So of course he was bending over backwards to be helpful to a disapproving Detective who looked like he hadn’t cracked a smile since the Exalted Age.

For a moment, she expected the Detective to be offended—read a certain way, it could seem as if Max was an arrogant Templar agent stepping on the toes of the local Guard. But the Detective seemed to take it in stride.

“I believe I will take you up on that, Agent Trevelyan.” The Detective’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I would be interested to see what he might say in front of a former instructor.”

 

* * *

 

It sort of killed Alistair to hand over the payment for the two-bed motel room he was sharing with Juliet Hawke. He had taken a perverse sort of pride in making his own way in a lousy apartment on his terrible pay, but between the private investigator’s fees and now the motel costs, he was actually having to spend his inheritance. He half expected the bills he was carrying to leap from his wallet and start screaming, “We belong to Maric Theirin! Take a good look at the guy carrying us, remind you of anyone?”

He wanted to go back to normal as soon as this whole stupid someone’s-trying-to-kill-me thing sorted itself out. So as the cranky motel clerk counted his payment, Alistair promised himself that he would spend just enough of Maric’s money to not die, then put it back in the bank and continue ignoring its existence.  _ Yes. Solid plan. _

Juliet misread his expression as they walked away from the desk. “Sorry. The places cheaper than this were, uh …”

“Rat-infested?”

“They aspired to rat infestation,” she corrected sardonically, hitching her bag a bit higher on her shoulder. “But not even the rats wanted to stay there.”

Alistair laughed at the image of rats filing out of an unsatisfactory motel. “The cost is fine. I just—it’s my father’s money.”

Juliet grimaced sympathetically. “It’s got to be weird.” 

“Yeah. But at least I still have my unimpressive bar to remind me I’m a nobody.” Alistair grinned. “All right, let’s go see what the Denerim Stay-n-Sleep has to offer.”

Actually, the Denerim Stay-n-Sleep also did a pretty good job of reminding Alistair that he was a nobody. It was clean, and didn’t have a noticeable smell, but he could tell the moment he opened the door that both mattresses were going to sag and the bathroom shower was probably going to leak.

“Home sweet home, at least for the next few days.” Juliet dumped her bag unceremoniously on the bed closest to the door, which Alistair supposed was the traditional spot for a bodyguard.

“Elegant.” He followed suit, dropping his suitcase at the foot of the bed. “I hope I remembered to pack a toothbrush.”

They busied themselves for a few minutes “touring” the room—there wasn’t much to see, except a few warped tiles in the bathroom that suggested Alistair’s instinct about the shower was correct—and unpacking the few clothes they’d brought. But once that was done, Alistair found himself perched nervously on the edge of his bed, trying not to clutch his hands together.

Juliet emerged from the bathroom, having completed her own examination of the premises. “So. I’m pretty sure we weren’t followed, and only Naia and Varric know to look for us here. Want to go for a walk?”

Alistair was reaching for his jacket before she’d finished the sentence. “Maker, yes.” 

*

It turned out that it was too cold to walk for long, so the two of them passed most of the afternoon in a diner around the corner from the motel. Aside from Juliet’s insistence on a back booth with a view of all doors, so far having a bodyguard felt surprisingly normal. They chatted about Alistair’s job, about Varric’s books, about the city’s consistent failure to get the ice off the sidewalks. It was almost like having a friend. Or what Alistair imagined having a friend might be like. 

_ I need to get out more and meet more people. After we’re done with this assassination stuff, obviously. _

To justify their spot at a perfectly good booth, after an hour or so of people-watching over coffee, they ordered a late lunch. As they ate, Alistair took the opportunity to study Juliet. She was about five years older than he was, he thought, though he wasn’t very good at guessing women’s ages. The fitted black leather jacket she wore today was battered and broken in, clearly an old favorite. If he’d had to imagine a sexy female private detective he probably would have come up with something like her. The part that he didn’t get was the part where she’d been in the Denerim City Guard.

“So why’d you become a Guardswoman?” he blurted curiously.

Juliet arched an eyebrow as she chewed. “Hm. I’ve asked myself the same thing,” she said wryly. “Honestly, it was a weird form of rebellion. My father is—well, I won’t say it out loud, but it isn’t legal. We spent our lives hiding from law-and-order types. So when I turned twenty and wanted to terrify my parents, I joined the Guard.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Wow. What did they say?”

Juliet shook her head. “Not much. I think they hoped that I’d realize it was a mistake. It took four years, but eventually I did.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Actually, most days I loved it.” Juliet took a sip of her coffee, then frowned. “Well, I take that back. Most days were boring. But I loved the days when I felt like we made a difference.” She sighed. “But then I realized there weren’t very many of those days, and some of my co-workers were hurting more than helping. Meanwhile I was getting promoted, getting attention. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone took a hard look at my background and learned too much about my family. So, I quit. Then I bumbled around for a few months before Naia took pity on me and hired me at Tabris Investigations.”

“I can’t imagine you bumbling,” Alistair said, raising an eyebrow.

Juliet laid a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Hey! I bumble with the best of them.”

“Please. I’m a bumbling expert. I’m sorry to tell you that you are a mere amateur in the field.” Alistair dunked his last fry in ketchup for emphasis. “So. When do you hand me off to Naia?”

“She and Varric are coming to the bar around seven. I’ll leave at seven thirty or so. I don’t want your followers to realize we’re working in shifts. I’ll go back to my apartment to get some sleep, then back to the bar about an hour before you close.”

_ The bar. _ Alistair glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned. “Ugh. Speaking of work, I have to be there in twenty minutes. It’s my turn to make sure the place is almost presentable before we open at five.”

Juliet reached for her scarf and hat as he threw some bills on the table. “Let’s go. I’ll see if I can disable the karaoke machine before Naia gets there.”

“It's not karaoke night until the weekend," Alistair pointed out.  


She laughed. “Believe me when I say that won't matter to Naia.”

*

The bar was only a twenty-minute walk away from the diner—mercifully, since it wasn’t getting any warmer. Alistair felt very relieved to be headed inside, and quickened his step as he turned the corner onto the bar’s block—but he stopped dead as soon as it came into view. 

Three people were standing in front of The Dockside: a human man and two elves. Alistair’s stomach churned as he watched the light glint off a familiar head of silver hair.  _ Detective Leto. _

Beside him, he heard Juliet catch her breath. At first he thought she was reacting to the Detective’s presence—there seemed to be some history there—but her eyes were focused on the man standing next to him, who was wearing a long wool coat with silver-grey Templar slacks showing underneath.

With a shock, Alistair realized that it was Maxwell Trevelyan.

Alistair had assumed he’d never see Max again. He’d arrived at the Denerim Circle while Alistair was at the Academy, and become one of the Agents in charge of training during his final year. Max was the youngest son of a prominent family that had high-ranking Templars in almost every Circle in Thedas. The Academy assignment was obviously an early promotion on Max’s path to Templar greatness. 

That should have made him hateable. Unfortunately, Max happened to be one of the most charismatic and genuinely nice people Alistair had ever met. Even Alistair, who had tried to keep the Templars at arms’ length, thought Max was a good guy and wished him well, which was more than he could say about his other instructors. He still had nightmares about Cullen Rutherford giving him that  _ look _ of his.

“Go around back,” Alistair whispered. “I’ll unlock the alley door for you. No reason to let the Detective know I hired you, right?”

Juliet nodded. “Good thinking.” Quietly, she stepped back around the corner, hiding herself from view. Alistair took a deep breath and continued down the street.

“You know we’re not open yet, right?” he called once he was sure Juliet was out of sight.

Max met Alistair’s eyes and grinned. “Hey, Guerrin. Any chance for an early drink? I gotta say, so far my afternoon’s been kind of rough, but I heard this place had a great bartender.”

“No, you didn’t,” Alistair said. “I know my limits, Agent Trevelyan. I do pour a mean plain whiskey, though.” Since there was probably no getting out of this, he added, “Want to come in and get a drink before we open?”

“Sure,” Max said easily, stepping aside so he could unlock the door.

“So. I know the Detective. Who’s your other friend?” Alistair asked casually as he fumbled with the sticky, fussy deadbolt.

“Enchanter Mei Surana, meet Alistair Guerrin,” Max said.

Alistair blinked in surprise and turned to get a better look at the elven woman. She was strikingly lovely, with an elegant oval face, dark eyes, and black hair that she that she wore pulled back in a neat ponytail.  _ An Enchanter on field assignment? Oh, shit. What’s going on? _

Enchanter Surana nodded briefly at Alistair. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Alistair said, for lack of any other way to respond. Fortunately the deadbolt finally turned in his hands and he could push open the door. He unbuttoned his coat and hung it on the rack behind the bar as the three investigators took their seats. Perched in a row, all looking at him, they bore an unsettling resemblance to the pigeons who sometimes stared at him from the power lines outside his apartment.

“I’ll take that whiskey if you’re pouring,” Max said cheerfully, as if this was really just a social visit.

“Coming right up. Enchanter? Detective?”

“Nothing for me,” the Enchanter replied.

“Or me,” Detective Leto said—after a pause, and almost reluctantly.

Alistair poured Max’s drink, then held up a pitcher of water and arched his eyebrow at Surana. She smiled a bit and nodded in assent, so he poured her a tall glass with no ice. Leto waved away the same offer with a slight flick of his wrist.

He set both drinks down on the bar gently, but not exactly invitingly. “So what brings you three to my humble place of work?”

Max took a sip of the whiskey. “As a matter of fact, your recent robbery.” He glanced over at Leto.

The Detective nodded easily. “We have evidence that you were specifically targeted that night. Agent Trevelyan and Enchanter Surana have offered their help, given your former connection to the Denerim circle.”

_ Interesting. The Guard and the Templars are actually cooperating.  _ Alistair thought that was pretty damn unusual, and wondered what Juliet and Naia would make of it. 

“I kind of figured it wasn’t random,” he admitted. He was a lousy actor; better to hide as few things as possible. “Once they were on the ropes, they took a shot at me anyway. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing they’d do if robbery was the only motive.” 

Leto’s face was impassive. “You said the night of the robbery that you could not think of a motive for anyone to target you personally,” he said. “Would you like to revise that statement? We can talk in the privacy of the guard house, if you wish.”

Alistair sighed. “The only thing I could think of was that maybe someone wanted to get at Eamon,” he lied. “But I bet you covered that when you went to see him.” 

Leto arched one silver eyebrow and said nothing. Alistair tried not to look too intimidated. The man could make someone piss himself with almost any facial expression.

“Look, I don’t exactly want to die. But I also don’t know why someone would want Alistair Guerrin, failed Templar, dead during a robbery. I swear I’ll get in touch if anything springs to mind.”

Max took another sip of his whiskey. “You weren’t a failed Templar. They offered you a commission.”

“And believe me when I tell you I was surprised.” Alistair pulled a bowl of lemons from underneath the bar and began slicing them in quarters, mostly to give himself a reason not to make eye contact. 

“ _ You  _ were surprised? No one who’s gotten through the Academy has declined a commission in over a decade.” Max eyed Alistair shrewdly. “We were sorry to lose you.”

Alistair put down his knife and dumped the lemons into a bowl. “That’s nice of you to say, but that life wasn’t for me. This is more my speed.”

“Why?”  
The question came from Mei Surana. Her face was calm, her tone non-judgmental, but her gaze was bright and intense. The answer obviously mattered to her. He’d answered exactly the same question from Naia not forty-eight hours earlier, but this time his tongue felt almost paralyzed.

“It … it just wasn’t for me,” he stumbled. “I didn’t like—” 

He almost stopped there, but then he realized he wasn’t a trainee anymore. He drew back his shoulders. “I don’t like how the mages are treated, or what I would have had to do as a Templar. No offense intended, Max.”

He glanced over at Trevelyan, who looked extremely surprised. “Uh. Some taken, I think.”

“You think the Circles unfair?” Leto said sharply. He raised one hand; suddenly, blue light crackled from his tattoos. “I cannot agree. It seems more than reasonable to gather mages where they can be kept safe from themselves—and be watched by those who can prevent the worst abuses of their power. If left unchecked, magic can be used for horrors beyond your imagining, Mr. Guerrin.”

Alistair bit back a joke about having a very good imagination; it didn’t seem appropriate. “Look. I don’t have the answers. But I didn’t have it in me to eat with someone every day and then hold them down for a Tranquil’s brand.” 

He glanced over at Enchanter Surana. Some mages would have been offended by his description of the Circle—he remembered an older woman, a healer, who had spoken with great sincerity about their importance and essential fairness. But Mei Surana was not one of those people who showed their thoughts on their faces. 

After a pause, Alistair shrugged uncomfortably. “So maybe that’s your answer. A pro-Templar faction heard that I declined a commission and decided to take a shot at me out of principle.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Detective Leto said dryly, pushing back from the bar. “You have my card, Mr. Guerrin. Do call me if anything strange happens, or if anything just happens to jog your memory.” From his tone, Alistair was pretty sure that Leto knew he was holding back.

“We’re here to help, Alistair,” Max said, in a gentler tone, before following Leto towards the bar door.

Enchanter Surana lingered for a moment longer. When Alistair met her eyes, her solemn expression briefly softened into something almost wistful. “For what it’s worth, you would have made a good Templar,” she said, in a voice too low to carry. “Though, perhaps, not by their standards.”

And then she too was gone, leaving Alistair with a heavy, unsettled feeling in his chest as he went to unlock the alley door for Juliet Hawke.

 

* * *

 

_ This will be a difficult place to remain unseen. _

It would have been far too convenient, of course, for Alistair Guerrin to work at a popular bar. The crowds came for karaoke on the weekends, but this evening only a handful of patrons were scattered around the tables of The Dockside. So Zevran ordered a watery draft of beer and took a table at the back. He tried to remain inconspicuous, but knew he could not return too frequently without risking being remembered. 

_ I will have to make the most of what I learn tonight, I suppose. _

As Zevran sipped his terrible beer and watched the patrons come and go, Alistair Guerrin passed the time by chatting with a human woman wearing a leather jacket. She struck Zevran as too worldly for a boy like Guerrin, but she seemed to enjoy his company, and the bartender was clearly pleased to be talking to an attractive older woman. None of the other patrons seemed to merit further study, although he was intrigued by a dwarf in a red scarf and brown leather jacket who was tilting his chair back and scribbling furiously on a legal pad.

At ten past seven, as Zevran tried to decide whether he could stomach another one of The Dockside’s drafts, the door burst open and admitted a new patron, an elf so heavily bundled that Zevran could not tell if it was a man or a woman. 

The figure rushed across the bar to the dwarf’s table, weaving easily through the mess of tables and chairs. “Sorry!” a female voice called out from behind the green scarf.

“No apology needed, Sparks. This is early for you.” The dwarf grinned as he gathered up some of his pages.

“Ha, ha,” the elven woman said dryly, unwinding her scarf and pulling off her hat. 

“Lemon drop?” the dwarf asked, pushing back from the table.

“You know me too well.” The elf flashed her friend a brilliant grin. Zevran felt his eyebrows raise appreciatively—there was a lively intelligence in the other elf’s face that he could not help but admire.

He forced himself to look away with a small, regretful sigh. It was almost a pity, to spot a lovely woman on a night when he had to be focused on his work. But there would be no outsourcing his task this time.

Alistair Guerrin was going to die.


	12. Chapter 12

The “lemon drop” that Varric brought Naia was, in reality, lemonade served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass. That was one of the nice things about guarding a bartender—you could tell him in advance to serve you non-alcoholic drinks, and he’d make them look like the real thing. 

As they sipped their pretend alcohol and talked about the plot to Varric’s latest novel, Naia cast a casual eye around the bar. A few people were there for after-work drinks or awkward dates. Juliet was doing a great impression of someone there to flirt with the bartender, and Alistair was chatting back amiably.

Then Naia saw him.

A blonde elf with olive skin was nursing a beer, his eyes staring out into the distance. He wore a collared shirt with the first few buttons left open, and his hair was artfully cut into tousled layers, just a little too long for a typical office job. He had a distinctive tattoo on his face, two curving parallel lines that highlighted his strong jaw and cheekbones. Above his collar, Naia could see the edge of another tattoo on his neck. She had to wonder if that was deliberate. Seeing the edge of the tattoo made her wonder what the rest of it looked like—and, by extension, the rest of him.

His eyes shifted, and for a moment Naia thought he had seen her staring—but instead, he turned his gaze towards Alistair and Juliet.

“Varric?” Naia murmured. “Blonde elf with the beer. Has he been eyeing them all night?”

“I was just about to point him out.” Varric took a sip of his “whiskey”—which was really iced tea. “I thought at first he was just looking at Hawke, but he hasn’t made a move on her. He gave me the once-over too, and he was definitely staring at you when you came in. So maybe he’s just here to admire all the beautiful people.”

“We are very, very pretty,” Naia agreed. “But I think I should go find out more, don’t you?”

“I’m sure this has nothing to do with the fact that he’s exactly your type,” Varric said dryly. “Go for it, Sparks. But keep your guard up.”

Naia grinned. “Always.”

*

The attractive woman at the bar was winding her scarf around her neck and saying something to the bartender. Zevran tried to decide if she was planning to leave, or if she was merely cold—but before he could decide, his train of thought was interrupted.

“Which one? Him or her?”

Zevran almost dropped his beer. As it was, he had to catch the glass before it shattered—which he immediately regretted, since it meant he had to continue drinking the beer. He looked over at the source of the voice. To his surprise, the red-haired elf was approaching his table, her expression friendly and her eyes studying him with interest.

He flashed her a smile. “Why choose? They are both quite striking, no?” 

The elven woman laughed. “Both of them? Wow, that’s ambitious.” She rested her hands on one of the empty chairs and arched an eyebrow at him. “You think you’ll say hello? It looks like she’s about to leave—you could miss your chance for a really interesting three-way. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

Her tone was upbeat and slightly teasing, and despite himself, he couldn’t help chuckling. “In truth, they are not quite my type. But I sometimes invent stories for the people I see out in the evenings. Those two … hmmm.” He leaned back in his chair. “She clearly knows him. A regular, despite this bar’s rather unimpressive ambiance. I think she works in the area and enjoys flirting with a younger man at the end of the day. If he were older, or more worldly, he might take a chance on asking her to dinner—but for now, he simply enjoys flirting back.”

The other elf looked at the patron and the bartender for a moment. “Hmmm. What about this? She just got out of a long relationship. She’s trying to get over her ex by picking up the bartender. He’s flirting back because she tips well, but he’s got a girlfriend waiting at home. Childhood sweetheart.”

Zevran smiled. “Also a fitting tale.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile inviting. “So. Could I buy you a drink?”

He looked down at his beer with a little half-smile. “I am afraid my answer must be no.” He did not have to feign the regret in his voice. “I would not be good company tonight.”

“Recent heartbreak?” the woman asked sympathetically.

Zevran found himself unexpectedly cold. She could not have known how accurate that statement was—and yet it made him feel uneasy, as if she had somehow seen Rinna’s loss.

“Indeed,” he managed.

She nodded. “If you change your mind, come join me and my friend any time.” She paused, then added, “It gets better. Or so I’m told.”

“That is … kind of you to say,” Zevran managed. “Enjoy your evening.”

With a smile and a little half-wave, the elf went back to her table.

*

“Well?” Varric asked quietly.

Naia shrugged. “Not sure. He’s definitely been watching them. I invited him for a drink. He said he was dealing with a broken heart.”

Varric took a sip of his iced tea. “I don’t buy it. His heart would have to be pretty broken to say no to a free drink,” he pointed out. “Especially one being offered by a woman he was staring at ten minutes ago.”

Naia twirled the stem of her martini glass. “Bianca,” she said simply.

Varric grimaced. “I haven’t told you that story. I don’t tell anyone that story.”

“I know. But my intuition still tells me that the night after that story ends, you wanted to get good and drunk all by yourself.”

“I did,” Varric conceded. Then he paused. “But not in a bar with people around. I bought the biggest bottle of whiskey the store carried, went back to my apartment, and I didn’t come out until the bottle was empty.”

Naia frowned thoughtfully. “So. We keep an eye on him, then?”

Varric nodded. “I like our odds. I’ll go order another round and tell Alistair we have a suspect.”

*

Zevran left the bar after finishing his second beer. He paid his tab quietly, in cash on the table, and slipped out while the elf and the dwarf were setting up some sort of complicated dwarven game involving stones and a checkered octagon. Apparently they meant to make a night of it at the Dockside. He wondered about their story—there was an easy intimacy between them, but he did not think they were lovers. 

What did that make them, then? Just friends? Zevran knew intellectually that affection might exist separately from sex, but he was still puzzled when he encountered it firsthand. It was not something he had much experience with himself.

He shook his head as he walked across the cold street to his car, trying to shake the pair from his mind.  _ Braska. I am distracted.  _ He should have been thinking about the bartender, about what he’d learned regarding the man’s work habits and schedule. The bartender seemed to have abandoned his apartment for now; he would have to find out where he was staying. Learning that began with following him home.

Zevran pulled open the beige door of his rented junker and settled into the driver’s seat to wait. It was going to be a cold night. But he had had worse ones, of late.

*

By one o’clock in the morning, the bartender was gently shuttling the few remaining drunks out the front door. He let the dwarf and elf stay, playing their game quietly in the background, but then they too packed up and slipped away, laughing as they walked down the street.

The bartender was alone.

Quietly, though he did not think anyone was listening, Zevran reached for the glove box on the car. Inside was a small, elegant arsenal: his favorite knife, just the right size for a killing blow delivered from the shadows, along with a pistol and silencer. He reached for the gun and wrapped his hand around the grip, pulling it into his lap with a strange sense of longing.

_ I could end it now. _

Zevran was not sure if he was thinking of Alistair Guerrin’s life, or his own.

He had bid on this job because it was far from Antiva—far from Rinna’s memory. But more than that, the mystery of it appealed to him. A contact who refused to be contacted in person. Payments not through discreet banks that used pseudonyms, but in cash. This kind of obsessive anonymity was often a sign that the client would try kill the assassin after the job was complete—usually a drawback for the Crows. For Zevran, that possibility supplied a large portion of the job’s appeal. 

But he was beginning to wonder just what sort of shadowy conspiracy wanted a joke-cracking bartender threatened and then killed. He had been scolded for such curiosity by superiors before, of course. He’d learned to keep those questions under wraps when working with other members of the Crows. Their job was to provide results, not wonder about the reasons, as he had been told many times. But he was alone now and could wonder as much as he liked.

He began to gently ease the safety off, placing his hand on the door to his car, but motion inside the bar caught his eye.

The attractive woman in the leather jacket was inside and walking towards the bar’s windows, her eyes narrowed as she looked out into the streets.

Zevran quickly slid down as far as he could, trying to avoid her eyes.  _ A bodyguard?  _ She must have returned through the alleyway—clever.  

_ So. The Councilman’s son has a protector.  _

Zevran slid the safety back on the gun. Suicidal or not, he could not bear to get himself killed through sheer incompetence. He would have to watch, and wait, and find out exactly what kind of threat this bodyguard posed. She was a good actress, that much he knew—he had not suspected her for a moment as she’d sat at the bar, laughing and flirting with her charge. But now he noticed the confident way she carried herself, the way her eyes searched not only the streets, but the nearby rooftops and cars. She was experienced. He found himself very relieved that he had parked under a broken streetlight; not even the most highly trained human bodyguard could see in the dark. 

Suddenly, he smiled.  _ Perhaps my final job will be a challenge after all. _

 

* * *

 

Dinner in the Circle was an oddly formal affair. The Enchanters and the full-fledged Templars dined at long, narrow tables, served by a permanent kitchen staff. This arrangement was the subject of local grumbling among many taxpayers and politicians during political campaigns, who saw it as decadent. Mei could only assume that they would change their tune if they attended a Circle dinner. The food wasn’t bad, but the atmosphere was not exactly relaxing. The mingling between mages and Templars was well-intentioned but forced—it could not help but be awkward, especially since some of the kitchen staff were Tranquil.

She and Cullen only occasionally allowed themselves to eat near one another—not so often as to raise suspicion, and not so seldom that they seemed to be avoiding each other. They had eaten side by side the previous night, keeping their conversation deliberately casual; she knew tonight he would seek out a spot at another table. So she was prepared to spend the meal more or less alone amidst the people around her.

That plan was interrupted when Anders pulled out the chair next to hers.

He gave her an insolent, amused grin as he sat down. “Why hello, Enchanter Surana. Back from field assignment so quickly? My, you’re efficient.” He tugged at a button on his Enchanter’s jacket; one of them had been buttoned wrong, leaving part of the garment gaping at the neck.

Mei tried not to let her irritation show. Max had wasted almost all of their afternoon helping Detective Leto. She liked Alistair Guerrin once she met him, but the threats to Fiona were first and foremost in her mind and she was annoyed at their lack of progress. At least the Detective had given them some files on local cells of mage-rights groups. That was something.

“We’re making progress. But we also have to eat,” she replied primly.

“That Detective you’re working with hates mages, you know.” Anders pulled his chair in and began toying with his fork. “You can see it on his face when he looks at us. They should make him a Templar for that alone.”

_ Yes, he hates us. But at least he has a good reason,  _ Mei thought, though she did not reply aloud.

Anders arched an eyebrow at her silence. “You don’t say much, do you?”

Well, that was easy to answer. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t take it personally, Anders. I’ve known Mei since we were teenagers. She’s just quiet.”

Mei and Anders looked across the table simultaneously as Marcus Amell pulled out a chair and took the seat. Mei felt herself relax a bit—a third person to break up the conversation with Anders was a welcome sight, even if she and Marcus were never on the easiest terms.

They probably  _ should  _ have been friends, but as a teenager, she’d viewed him primarily as a rival for the title of “Best Mage in the Denerim Circle.” The hazel-eyed, dark-skinned human was frighteningly talented; while she usually outstripped him on the basics like ice and fire magic, Mei envied Marcus’s skill with arcane spells that twisted reality. He, too, was reserved and seldom showed what he was thinking—but on Marcus, that quality came across as professional and calm instead of aloof and quiet. Since she’d returned from Montsimmard he had been polite but distant. She had assumed he shared those old feelings of rivalry, and was perhaps not delighted to see her transferred back. But right now he was smiling at her as if they had been friends for years. 

“I heard you’re on field assignment. Congratulations.” Marcus managed to put just the right amount of envy into the words. He’d grown his hair a bit since their days as trainees, when he’d kept it almost shaved; now loose, dark waves softened his angular face, giving him the look of a romantic poet.

“My first since coming back to Denerim,” Mei admitted. “I was lucky Fiona recommended me for it.”

“Too bad it wasn’t a spring assignment. Well, spare a thought for those of us behind Circle walls while you gallivant out in the freezing cold Ferelden winter,” Anders cracked.

Marcus turned to Anders with a friendly smile. “Why don’t you sample that winter for yourself? I hear you’re good at that.”

Mei wasn’t sure what Marcus was alluding to, but Anders stiffened. “Not anymore,” he answered, his tone clipped and closed.

Marcus noticed Mei’s puzzled look. “Anders here is an escape artist. Holds the record for most breakouts from—which Circle was it?”

“Starkhaven,” the blonde man replied. His tone did not invite further conversation. 

“Was it always just you? Or did you take other people with you?” Marcus asked curiously. Mei blinked in surprise. Anders clearly didn’t want to talk about this; she’d thought Marcus observant enough to notice.

“Nope. Always just me.” Anders looked down at the table and began to rearrange his silverware.

“Really? If you knew a way out, why didn’t you share it?”

Mei realized, with quiet curiosity, that Marcus was feeling Anders out for something. What, she wasn’t sure. Did he want to leave the Denerim Circle? If he did, why in the Maker’s name was he asking Anders about his escapes at dinner, with Templars in hearing distance? She  _ knew  _ Marcus wasn’t that dumb.

“It’s every mage for themselves in these hellholes. You know that,” Anders snapped. “I wasn’t about to get dragged down by a partner in crime.” His green eyes narrowed as he examined Marcus’s face. “And if you’re going to ask if I’ll take you with me next time, there’s not going to  _ be  _ a next time. When they transferred me here they made it very clear that the next escape would end with a Tranquil’s brand on my forehead. Sorry to disappoint you, but I like my brain the way it is.”

Mei grimaced sympathetically. With that kind of record it would be years—if ever—before Anders was sent into the field himself. The walls of the Denerim Circle were probably the only ones he was going to know for quite some time. But Anders didn’t notice her expression. He was too busy glaring daggers across the table at Marcus.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” Marcus said sincerely. “I just—I thought it was a good story. Breaking out takes courage.”

“Not really. Just deep stupidity and a dislike for Templars.” Anders looked up, relief on his face as a plate descended in front of him. “Ah, good, the food. An excuse to stop talking.”

Mei thought about pointing out that he’d started it, sort of, by needling her—but decided against it. Instead, she glanced across the table at Marcus, who was watching Anders with a calculating expression on his face. He looked as if he thought Anders was an interesting puzzle he would very much like to solve. Was he interested in Anders romantically? His questions seemed more calculating than that. Mei found herself wondering what Marcus had been up to in the years she was gone to Montsimmard.

She dropped her gaze before he could see her watching and pretended to be interested in the roast chicken on her plate. But her mind was still whirling with speculation.

_ What do you want with Anders? _

_ What are you planning, Marcus Amell? _

*

After dinner, Marcus fell in step beside Uldred. “I say no to Anders,” he murmured as they walked down the hall towards the sleeping quarters. “The rumors about his escapes seem accurate, but he’s selfish, and they’ve put a good scare in him by threatening the brand. We don’t want someone so unreliable.”

“Disappointing,” Uldred sighed. “But he has a strong connection to the Fade. Perhaps we can find a use for him in the end.”

Uldred had mentioned connections to the Fade a great deal, of late. Marcus was beginning to have suspicions about the recent oddness to his manners. Had the other mage made a compact with a demon?

And was Marcus a monster if he didn’t really care?

“Mei Surana …” Marcus began.

“We’ve discussed this,” Uldred interrupted, not unkindly. “She is tied to Fiona. We can’t trust her, Marcus.”

“I agree. But we also don’t want her as an enemy. Don’t let her fool you. She may be quiet, but she can break a man in half with an ice spell. Perhaps we should move our timeline up, since she is on field assignment at the moment. We could strike while she and Trevelyan are away.” 

Marcus took a breath, realizing what he was going to propose next was monstrous. He respected Mei, and suspected that beneath her silent persona lay a woman who saw the Circles for what they were. But she was too close to Fiona to agree to this plan.  _ It must be done. We cannot lose this fight.  _ “If Mei is here when we begin, I think she will need to be neutralized. Quickly.”

Uldred nodded. “A wise suggestion. We will take care of it.”

Marcus tried very hard not to wonder if  _ we  _ referred to Uldred and his fellow conspirators, or to something else entirely.


	13. Chapter 13

For the next two nights that Alistair worked, Naia, Varric, and Juliet traded off shifts at the Dockside, watching and waiting for something to happen. Naia looked for the blonde elf, but he didn’t return to the bar—at least, not that she could see. They had a moment of excitement on the third night when two drunks got into an incomprehensible fight over the bowl of peanuts on their table (at least, that was what Naia _thought_ they were fighting about). Alistair, however, broke the fight up efficiently and gently; he hauled both of the drunks out the door without breaking a sweat. Naia was beginning to suspect that despite what Alistair claimed, the commission from the Templars had not been a prank. He was more capable than he wanted people to believe.

On the third night that Alistair was working, Naia was wrapping her scarf around her neck in preparation for the walk over when Juliet’s phone rang. She ignored it. She usually did, since some of the people who would talk to Juliet wouldn’t talk to her. The ringing soon stopped and the called didn’t leave a message, but then it started again almost immediately.

When the caller rang a third time, Naia waved apologetically to Varric—who was buttoning his own coat—and ran inside to answer it.

“Tabris Investigations. Naia Tabris speaking.”

“Oh!” The voice on the other hand was a man’s. “I—this is Donnic Hendyr. I’m with the City Guard.”

“Right, Juliet’s old partner,” Naia said, reaching for Juliet’s note paper to take a message. “She’s not in right now, but I can have her call you back.”

“Um. I was actually going to ask her to put me in touch with you,” the Guardsman said tentatively. “I’m at the alienage hospital with an elf—an assault victim, probably a mugging. We thought he was ready to cooperate but he suddenly clammed up. I was hoping you might be willing to talk to him, see what he’s afraid of. I know we don’t have the best reputation in the alienage, but I personally guarantee that whatever it is, we’ll help.”

Naia normally would have snorted out loud at that kind of declaration from a shem, but Juliet had vouched for Donnic. Plus, having a friendly Guardsman they could rely on for inside information was crucial to their work. Maybe this would clear a few of those pesky favors off their ledger. “I think I can help. Hang on.”

She glanced up at Varric, who had planted himself in the doorway to Juliet’s office. She pressed the receiver to her shoulder and opened her mouth to explain the situation, but Varric was already nodding with understanding. “Don’t sweat it, Sparks. I’ll take our shift alone. Bianca will keep me company.”

Naia smiled gratefully and put the phone back to her ear. “Donnic? I’ll be right over. Just tell me the room number.”

 

* * *

 

The alienage hospital was not Naia’s favorite place. The feeling of unease began as soon as she stepped off the bus, and rose as she approached the building and pushed past the glass doors. Ten years later, and all she could think about when she saw this place was Shianni.

It wasn’t just the horror of the attack on her cousin that stuck with her, though. She remembered spelling out her name for half a dozen hospital employees, pleading for information about her cousin, being told that she needed to stay in the waiting room. She learned later that Shianni had been begging the medical staff to find out if Naia had arrived yet. By the time a sympathetic orderly snuck Naia past the hard-eyed nurses, Shianni had endured her examination alone.

Naia had yet to forgive that cruelty. But now she was older, and wiser, and knew when to ignore people who told her to stay in the waiting room.

“Naia Tabris. I’m a consultant for the Guard. Donnic Hendyr called me to room 702,” she brusquely informed the nurse at the front desk, flashing her investigator’s license past his eyes with one quick swipe of her wrist.

The nurse, a stout human in his mid-twenties, put in a call to the seventh floor. His eyes widened in surprise at what he heard; he gave Naia a skeptical once-over. Overhead, a damaged fluorescent light flickered unpleasantly.

“Uh. Go on up,” he said as he hung up the phone. He seemed vaguely disappointed not to be able to turn her away. Naia gave him a single nod before turning her back on him and walking to the elevator. She was actually a little disappointed too—she had kind of been looking forward to finding out if she could sneak upstairs dressed as a janitor.

When Naia stepped out of the elevator, she saw a pair of humans in Guard uniforms standing in the corridor, watching the doors impatiently. The woman, a strong-looking blonde a good foot taller than Naia. The other had to be Donnic Hendyr—he was exactly as Juliet had described him, right down to the ragged haircut.

Naia held out her hand to him. “Hey. Juliet’s told me a lot about you.”

Donnic accepted her hand readily, and his smile even seemed sincere. “Likewise. Naia Tabris, meet Guardswoman Eryn Jenkins. We’re both members of Detective Leto’s task force on alienage crime.”

The Guardswoman gave her a curt nod and did not offer her hand. “I’m sorry we got you down here. I had this under control.” She shot Donnic an annoyed look. “It’s not uncommon for victims to refuse to cooperate in these circumstances.”

“Which are?” Naia asked neutrally, as they began the walk down the hallway.

“We don’t know,” Donnic said—somewhat sharply. He gave Guardswoman Jenkins a quelling look. “The Guardswoman suspects he may be a runner for one of the local lyrium cartels. But he seemed ready to make a statement when I first started questioning him.” He glanced over at Jenkins again. Though he didn’t criticize her openly, Naia could guess what had happened—Jenkins had botched the interview and scared the victim into silence. Naia looked to his collar—three narrow bars to Jenkins’s two. _He outranks her. Good._

She squared her shoulders and looked Donnic in the eye. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll talk to your victim and see if I can persuade him that the Guard will do more good than harm. But I won’t lie to him, and there are limits to how much I’m willing to manipulate him. Plus, he may not talk to me. Despite popular rumor we alienage elves don’t all know each other.”

The Guardswoman seemed unimpressed, but Donnic merely nodded. “That’s all I can ask. I appreciate the help.”

Naia noticed that he didn’t say _we._ She liked that—his instinct was to tell the exact truth. No wonder Juliet had thought he was a trustworthy partner.

Room 702 was a narrow, shabby little rectangle with one window shoved into a far corner. There were wires in the upper corner of the room where a TV should have been, but no TV. A male elf with short-cropped, mousy hair was leaning back on the bed with a hospital tray on his lap, stacking tongue depressors on top of one another in a criss-cross pattern, constructing a little cabin in miniature. His left arm was in a sling and there was a nasty bruise on the side of his face; the way his cheek had swollen suggested to Naia that he’d lost at least one tooth.

Her stomach flipped. They hadn’t told her that the victim was just a kid. Nineteen, if that.

He glanced up as she stepped into the room and shut the door. “Who are you?” The question was wary, but not hostile.

 _Lyrium runner, my ass,_ Naia thought. “My name’s Naia Tabris. Guardsman Hendyr is a friend of a friend. He asked me to come talk to you. What’s your name?”

The young man’s face hardened. “I didn’t see who it was.” Then his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Wait. Tabris? You’re—”

“Yeah. Shianni’s cousin, and Soris’s too,” Naia finished, before he could say something about the Dark Wolf. “You know them?”

“Everyone knows Shianni,” the boy said, with a ghost of a smile. “Toughest woman in the alienage.” He paused. “I’m Aren Vendis.”

“Vendis? Your family owns the laundromats, right?” Naia had fond memories of the Vendis Laundromat near her home, watching the clothes tumble in the dryer, folding the still-warm shirts and socks with her mother at her side.

Aren nodded. “Yeah. That’s where I …”

He fell silent again, watching Naia—and then looking up at the door, as if he feared he might be overheard. A slow suspicion started to prickle at the back of her mind.

“Aren. If you’re sure you don’t want to make a statement or press charges, that’s up to you. But my best friend says Donnic’s a good egg, and I trust her judgment. He’ll do the right thing.” She took a shot in the dark. “And I think you’re scared of Guardswoman Jenkins, and if that’s right, I’d like to get her out of our alienage.”

Aren looked over at Naia, his expression torn between hope and fear, and told her the whole story.

*

Twenty minutes later, after asking the right questions and making very, very sure, Naia stepped out into the hallway. “He’ll let you take his statement, Donnic. But _only Donnic,_ ” she said firmly as the Guardswoman stepped for the door to room 702.

Jenkins scowled. “He just wants to split us up, Donnic. He’s probably planning to …”

“He’s got a broken arm and weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet,” Naia said flatly. “I think Donnic can handle him.” She turned to the Guardsman. “Just you. Otherwise, no statement and he’s walking out of here.”

She kept her voice absolutely neutral. She knew from Varric how courts worked. There could be no hint that she had influenced Donnic’s line of questioning or his conclusions.

“That’s fine,” Donnic said easily. “My thanks, Naia.”

“Anytime.” Naia forced a friendly smile as he went into the room.

Her smile faded almost instantly once Donnic was out of sight. Then, as she’d promised Aren, she leaned against the wall outside his room and crossed her arms, making herself as comfortable as possible. She wasn’t going to budge from this hallway until Jenkins was gone.

Jenkins looked at her incredulously. “I caught this case. Who the hell gave you the right to hand it over to Donnic? You don’t even work for the fucking Guard!”

“You’re right, I don’t have the power to take away your case,” Naia agreed. “But Donnic outranks you, thank the Maker, so he has the right to take over the investigation. Take it up with him.”

“You mean after that little criminal fills his head with lies?” Jenkins spat.

She stepped close to Naia, glowering down at her, effectively trapping her against the wall. “I don’t know what he told you …”

“Yeah, you do.” Naia kept her voice as bored and flat as she could. But she could feel her temper beginning to stir—that hot, tense sensation that felt as if it might crush her unless she found a way to release it. “That’s why you’re panicking right now. Because you think he’s telling Donnic the truth. Could you back up a bit? I’m getting claustrophobic.”

Jenkins’s right hand lashed out, pinning Naia’s left shoulder to the wall. Her palm pressed painfully into Naia’s collarbone, and Naia could feel the rough brick of the wall scraping against the back of her coat. “Listen, you meddling knife-eared brat …”

Blood began pounding in Naia’s temples, rushing through her ears as her heart thudded in her chest. “Take your hand off of me right now,” she said, as calmly as she could manage.

“Or what?” the Guardswoman snapped, tightening her grip.

Naia knew the smart thing to do would be to call for Donnic. But she looked into Jenkins’s face, saw the flat hatred in her eyes, thought about her patrolling the alienage and what Aren had told her, and she snapped.

The first blow was a vicious jab to Jenkins’s solar plexus, delivered with her free right hand. As the Guardswoman gasped and loosened her grip, Naia raised both hands and shoved her as hard as she could, hard enough to send her staggering against the far wall. The Guardswoman hit that wall with a satisfying _smack_ and had to steady herself before turning back to Naia.

Naia raised her hands, ready to defend herself, but Jenkins didn't move. She met Naia's gaze, her face filled with fury—and then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. With a smug little laugh, Guardswoman Jenkins reached for her handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

Naia dropped her hands as her entire future crumbled in front of her. _I hit a member of the Guard._ Her license was almost certainly gone once they processed the arrest. Her business would die. She might even spend time in jail.

_Oh, Maker. Why am I so fucking stupid?_

Jenkins took a step forward, her smile wolfish and triumphant as she watched Naia’s face drain of blood. “By the authority of the City Guard of Denerim …”

“That’s enough, Guardswoman.”

Naia and Jenkins both turned their heads to the sound of the voice. Detective Fenris Leto was standing in the corridor, his face hard. He was wearing slightly rumpled civilian clothes underneath his usual wool coat; Naia suspected that he might have been sleeping, or near it, when called to the hospital.

Jenkins looked horrified—the first real sign of intelligence Naia had seen in her. “D-Detective! She assaulted an officer of …”

“What I saw was a member of the City Guard—a member of my task force—threatening a consultant whose presence I personally authorized.” Fenris’s eyes bore into the woman’s face. “You are suspended, Guardswoman, effective immediately. Leave the hospital grounds at once and return to the Guard house to hand over your equipment, if you want to have any hope of reinstatement after the investigation.”

“Investigation? Into what?” Jenkins sneered. “You’re going to ruin my whole career over a five-minute _spat_ with some meddling elf?” Too late, she realized that she was talking to an elf; her face grew even paler.

“The investigation, I suspect, will focus on what Guardsman Donnic is learning from our witness right now,” Leto said coolly. “Leave. I will not ask again.”

With no other recourse, Jenkins spat at Naia’s feet and stormed off to the elevators.

Naia’s knees wobbled; she leaned back against the wall and slowly sunk down onto her heels, trying to breathe. After a moment, Fenris offered her his hand. Gratefully, Naia let him pull her to her feet and over to the nearest set of chairs.

“How much trouble am I in?” she asked, sitting down into the chair and digging her hands into her hair.

“That will rather depend on the Guardswoman,” Fenris said candidly, taking the seat next to her. Naia liked that he didn’t tell her not to worry. “My hope is that she will choose not to take the risk of pursuing charges against you. It seems that she will have bigger problems to worry about in the very near future.”

Naia raised her eyebrows. “How much of that did you overhear?”

“Enough to draw some conclusions. Did she assault the victim?”

“Off the record? No. Her old partner did.” Naia took a shuddering breath. “They’ve been running a protection scam in the alienage for months, since before you started your task force.” _And why didn’t I know about it?_ Had her business really taken her so far away from the alienage? “The Vendis family wouldn’t pay up, so her partner jumped Aren on the way to the bank. Took an entire week’s cash. When Aren realized who she was he thought it wasn’t a good idea to make a statement.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed. and little flickers of blue light shone from the tattoos on the back of his hands. “Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Vendis personally, to assure him that this will be taken very seriously.”

“No, don’t.” Naia shook her head. “I’ve already spoiled you as an impartial questioner. Besides, Aren’s skittish right now. Donnic may be a shem, but his face is a lot more comforting than yours.”

Fenris showed no reaction to the words, but his very stillness told Naia that she’d struck a nerve. She grimaced, appalled at herself. “Fuck. I’m sorry, that was a lousy thing to say. I just meant—you’re kind of intimidating.”

The detective’s mouth curved in a slight, almost sad smile. “I am aware of the, ah, effect I tend to have on witnesses. It’s mostly useful, but—perhaps not in the present circumstances.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “You, however, have never shown the least sign of being intimidated by me.”

Naia shook her head with a little laugh. “That’s because I have no sense. As the interaction with Guardswoman Jenkins probably showed you.”

Fenris sighed. “Sometimes, when we are pushed beyond endurance, the only possible course of action is to defend ourselves. No matter how foolish it may seem.”

They sat in silence for a while—not an easy silence, but not precisely uncomfortable either. Then the Detective smiled at her almost mischievously. “So. How is your investigation into the Dockside shooting proceeding? And don’t bother denying you have one—Hawke would never leave that kind of puzzle unsolved, even if you could.”

Naia let out a good-natured sigh. “No secrets from the Denerim Guard, I see. It’s fine. How’s yours?” _At least he hasn’t guessed that Alistair hired us. I think._ Hiring private investigators instead of letting the Guard handle things usually didn’t look good for a client.

“Proceeding well enough, I suppose, though few of my leads have gone anywhere.” He looked over at her, as if he was about to ask for her opinion—but then he stood abruptly, his eyes swivelling towards room 702.

Donnic was stepping out, his notebook clutched in his right hand. Underneath the dark stubble of his beard, his expression was grim and furious. Naia suspected that it took a lot to put that kind of expression on Donnic Hendyr’s kindly face.

The Guardsman inhaled deeply. “Detective. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Fenris looked down at Naia. “Would you do us the favor of calling Aren’s family?”

Naia nodded. “Absolutely.”

*

Some hours later, after Aren’s family had arrived and a warrant had been sworn out for the arrest of Jenkins’s former partner, Fenris offered Naia a ride home. She was sorely tempted to ask him to drop her at her apartment, but when she looked at her watch, she realized that the Dockside was about to close, and she could make it there in time to check in if they were lucky about the stoplights.

“Could you drop me at the Dockside?” she said reluctantly when Fenris asked for her address. “Juliet and Varric were having a late drink there, I might still be able to catch them.”

Fenris gave her a flat, you’re-not-serious look, but did not ask further questions about her investigation.

The street in front of the Dockside was inconveniently cordoned off, reserved for upcoming road work, so Fenris had to park on a side street. Naia thanked him for the ride, and he nodded—but then without a word, he climbed out of the vehicle as well and began to walk her to the bar. Naia found that oddly comforting.

The bar was dark when they arrived at the door at five minutes past one. Naia groaned inwardly, practically aching for her bed. _Should have known I wouldn’t catch them,_ she thought wryly, pressing her nose to the window and peering within, hoping that Juliet and Alistair might be somewhere in the back.

She almost didn’t hear it. Then she almost dismissed it as a figment of her imagination.

But when she looked over at Fenris and saw the alarm in his eyes, she knew they had both heard the same thing: the spitting sound of bullets fired through a silencer.

 


	14. Chapter 14

With Naia off doing a favor for Donnic, Varric had the first shift watching the Dockside for signs of trouble. Juliet was scheduled to leave Alistair in Varric’s charge and return at midnight, but she found herself staying, sitting side-by-side with Varric at the bar. Something about the “road work” signs outside disturbed her. It almost felt as if someone was trying to save space—or make sure there wouldn’t be witnesses parked outside.

But, like the nights before it, this one passed quietly.

“Maybe they’re waiting for the weekend?” Varric theorized quietly. He sipped his drink and grimaced. “Maker, I hope not. I hope I never have to drink another damned iced tea.”

Juliet tapped her fingers against the bartop with a frown. “I guess they might want more cover and more suspects. If it were me I’d go with the mugging scenario, though. Send one capable guy to accidentally-on-purpose stab Alistair while stealing his wallet.” Then something dawned on her. “But that might change if I’d figured out that the target had a bodyguard.”

“Yeah, that could be.” Varric nodded. “Think Bianca and I should stick around for closing?”

Juliet glanced over at Alistair, looking collected but nervous as he wiped down the bar for the fourth time that hour. “Yeah. I’ve got a funny feeling about tonight.”

*

Alistair was getting the sense that something was off. First, there was the supposed “road work” outside the bar. The Dockside was in a lousy neighborhood; potholes were practically a matter of principle. Then Juliet and Varric switched up the plan—maybe because Naia was away, but maybe because they shared his unease. He knew it for sure when Varric didn’t leave the bar as scheduled. They thought something was going to happen tonight.

He felt calmer than he would have expected, all things considered. Which was not to say that his stomach wasn’t doing somersaults. He spent most of the night obsessively cleaning, working to occupy himself as the minutes until closing counted down. On the upside the bar had never looked cleaner.

Juliet gave him a reassuring smile as they began bundling up to leave. “You think the road work is suspicious too, huh?”

“That obvious?” Alistair gave a mock sigh. “And here I thought I was mysterious and inscrutable. Disappointing.”

“Don’t feel too bad, kid. You’ve got an honest face. No one’s perfect.” Varric grinned and patted the strap of the battered pack slung over his shoulder. “Bianca’s ready to meet the nice people. How about you guys?”

“It might still be nothing,” Juliet cautioned. “Don’t get too jumpy just yet.”

“Should we go out back?” Alistair suggested.

Juliet nodded. “Too open out in front. I don’t like opportunities for surprises.”

Alistair inhaled deeply and puffed the air out in a rush. “All right. Let’s go.”

Juliet led the way out into the alley, with Varric bringing up the rear, and Alistair in between them like the filling in a very odd sandwich. They all looked left towards the street, then right past the dumpsters, watching to see if anyone lay in wait. When no one emerged, Juliet nodded and gestured to the right, taking them further down the alley.

They’d walked for no more than a few minutes when Varric whispered, “Uh, guys? Check out our six.”

Alistair looked over his shoulder. At first he saw nothing—but then a shadow flickered and moved at the edge of the alley. Then, a second, and a third. Slowly, three human forms took shape, moving slowly but steadily.

“Maybe they’re just out for a walk?” Alistair suggested hopefully.

“I doubt it,” Juliet said quietly. “We’ve got four more dead ahead.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Alistair swung his head around. The four figures were moving towards them at a menacing pace. In the dim light of the alley, he could see knives glinting in their hands.

If Juliet shared his dread, she didn’t show it. “Everybody ready?”

Behind him, Alistair heard Varric rack Bianca. “Following your lead, Hawke.”

“Try to leave at least one of them in one piece,” she murmured. “Dead people don’t answer questions very well.”

Then, unexpectedly, she raised her voice. “Hi, everyone. Let’s stop the skulking and talk about this like reasonable people.”

All seven shadows hesitated. Then, one of them—the largest one, standing about five paces in front of Juliet—spoke up. “Wallets on the ground, now.” It was a male voice, an uneven tenor.

“Don’t bother. We know you’re not muggers,” Hawke said calmly. She put her hands in her pockets, seeming completely unworried. “You’re here because someone hired you to cause trouble for my friend. But you’re out of your league, so I’m going to give you an exciting opportunity: walk away now in one piece.” She punctuated this statement with a cocky grin. “Or, we can fight. But I should warn you that I’ve never seen the dwarf miss with that shotgun and my other friend here used to be a Templar.”

Alistair bit back the ridiculous urge to correct her.

“As for me, well, I fight dirty and go for the eyes. So. Any takers on the unbroken limbs?” Juliet waited expectantly.

The seven dark forms all shifted slightly. No one moved.

And then, from behind a dumpster about ten paces further down the alley, an eighth shadow emerged.

“Up ahead!” Alistair yelled.

The warning came too late. The newcomer had raised a hand and pulled a trigger; the quiet _pew-pew-pew_ of three silenced bullets cut through the alleyway.

As Varric grabbed the back of Alistair’s coat, pulling him down to a crouch, Juliet took her hands out of her pockets and spread her fingers wide. The hair on Alistair’s arms stood on end as magic exploded in the alleyway. With stunned awe, he looked up at the spell Juliet had just cast—a swirling dome of magic that had stopped the three bullets in midair.

_Maker. She’s a mage._

And a powerful one, unless he really had been lousy at Templar-ing. He’d seen shield spells before, but they usually just slowed bullets down, not stopped them dead.

Juliet glanced down at Alistair, a slight grimace crinkling her expression. She had undoubtedly hoped to avoid letting him see her break the law by using her magic. He tried to look as unsurprised as possible—like someone who would never turn his bodyguard in for casting spells that saved his life.

As the shield swirled around them, Alistair heard the shooter swear in a language he didn’t recognize. “ _Braska!_ Move forward!” the man shouted. “She can’t hold that spell for long.” Alistair suspected he was correct—the more force the shield absorbed, the harder it would be to hold it in place.

But Juliet just grinned. “You know what? You’re right.” Her eyes narrowed and her fingers clenched; suddenly, the shield’s magic gathered behind the three bullets and spit them outwards towards the attackers. Two bullets hit the Dockside’s back wall, but one struck an assailant. He howled and stumbled against the wall to support himself; injured, but not dead.

Alistair pulled his shoulders back and raised his fists as the rest of the attackers flew at them like an avalanche.

Varric was more than ready. The dwarf emerged from his crouch with with Bianca against his shoulder and fired. The closest man collapsed in a heap.

 _First two down_ , Alistair thought wildly as two more drew close

Juliet raised her left hand, a fierce, joyous grin on her face. A thin whip of magic caught one of the assassins straight across the chin, sending him spinning to unconsciousness. As she cast the spell, one attacker tried to tackle her from behind, knife in hand, but Varric was there to stop him. The dwarf swung Bianca like a bat and caught their opponent square across the shins. Alistair heard the sick, wet _crunch_ of something being broken in the assailant’s knee.

When his knife clattered to the cracked cement, Alistair scooped it up. It wasn’t a sword, but under the circumstances he wasn’t about to complain. He was just in time to use it—another attacker tried to launch himself straight at Alistair, but Alistair caught him square across the bridge of the nose with a hard lefthanded jab as his right hand sunk the blade into his chest. He shoved the man back, trying to take stock of what remained.

 _Three more down._ _Three left._

Next to him, Juliet began gathering magic, readying herself for the next spell.

But suddenly, it was two left.

Blue light filled the alleyway as one of the attackers behind them was lifted clean off his feet and flung into the wall. It took Alistair a moment to remember where he had seen that blue light before. _Detective Leto?_

A second attacker tried to grab the Detective from behind—a foolish move, for the elf simply spun round and thrust his hand into the man’s chest. He froze, then collapsed with a wet gurgle.

“Denerim Guard!” the Detective shouted. “Put down your weapons immediately.”

As the single remaining attacker dropped to his knees, his hands behind his head, Alistair realized two very unpleasant things simultaneously. First, the shooter was no longer in the alley.

Second, Detective Leto was looking straight at Juliet Hawke—an apostate mage with magic flaring between her hands.

*

_A mage. That is … unfortunate._

It quickly became clear that the bodyguard and her friends were more than a match for the people Zevran had hired, and that was even before the glowing Detective joined their fight. When he was certain they would lose, Zevran did what any well-trained Crow would do—he quit the fight to regroup and come up with a new plan.

His flight took him to another alleyway, a dark, dead-end sliver of street that seemed safely away from any possibility of witnesses. Methodically, he began dismantling his gun, pocketing some pieces to drop down the nearest storm drain and throwing others in the nearby dumpster. Even if the bullets were recovered, they would be nearly impossible to link to him.

As he threw the silencer and the rest of the clip into the dumpster, he suddenly realized what he had done. Out of pure instinct, he had thrown away a perfectly good chance accomplish what he had come here to do—to get himself killed on assignment.

Helpless, exhausted laughter seized him. He leaned his head back against the filthy wall and chuckled mirthlessly, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to grapple with what that meant.

_It seems some part of me still wishes to live. How unexpected._

“Um. Hello. Hi there. You OK?”

Zevran actually jumped. He hadn’t done that in years.

With a mounting sense of dread, he turned his face towards the sound of the voice. The pretty elven bar patron was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, dressed in jeans and a puffy winter coat, her head tilted curiously. Her eyes quickly focused on the remaining pieces of the gun in his hands.

_Braska. Of all the times to find a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time._

“Well. Good evening.” He dropped the remaining pieces of the gun to the ground; he couldn’t reassemble it in time to be useful here. “It seems you’ve caught me in a rather compromising situation. And not the one I would have hoped.”

“I have bad timing. People complain about it a lot,” the woman said with a little shrug. “So. Any chance you’ll wait nicely while I yell for the guard?”

Zevran bit back a laugh—this wasn’t really funny. “Ah, I am afraid not.” All friendliness slid from his face, leaving only a deadly sort of resignation. “Walk away, my dear. This is more than you can handle, and I do not wish to hurt you.”

Zevran took a step closer to her, then another. The woman might have pulled her shoulders back just a bit, but she stood her ground. He liked her for that.

“You think you know what I can handle?”

Another step forward. “Get out of my way,” he said softly. “As I said, I do not wish to hurt you—but you are hindering my escape, and that is unwise.”

She said nothing, just stared back at him, her green eyes bright and clear.

After a moment, Zevran sighed. “I am sorry.”

He stepped forward and moved to close his hands around her upper arms. His intent was to shove her, hard enough to send her tumbling to the ground, but not so hard that he would do her serious harm.

Instead, however, the woman uncrossed her arms and slid from his grasp as easily as if she’d been made of water. Before he could compensate, she struck out hard with one palm, catching him across the bridge of the nose. Bright light exploded in his field of vision; everything danced with white spots as the sensitive nerves howled in fury.

He staggered back a half step, shaking his head to clear the pain and dancing spots. When his vision cleared, he saw that the woman was still standing between him and his escape—but now her fists were raised and her feet were planted in a fighter’s wide stance.

Zevran felt a delighted, wolfish grin spread slowly across his features. “So. You and the bodyguard are working together?”

The other elf raised her eyebrows. “Good guess.”

He chuckled. “I have been doing this a long time, you know. Do you really think you can hold your own?” Slowly, he began circling towards her left, his own hands raised and at the ready.

She shrugged, a little smile of her own playing on her lips. “Well. I guess we’re about to find out.”

*

Juliet collapsed her spell and drew its mana back into herself the moment she saw Fenris standing in the alley, but it was too late— _far_ too late. The lyrium underneath his skin made the Detective painfully sensitive to magic. There was no way he hadn’t realized what she was doing—what she was. His expression was calm and neutral, but she knew that he had to be thinking _something._

At least he hadn’t arrested her yet. That was probably good.

As he watched her, she forced a smile and tried to hide the fact that she wanted to throw up. “Detective. You show up in the strangest places.”

He inclined his head with a little smile. “Perhaps I do.” He reached for his handcuffs and began to approach the single conscious attacker. “I, however, did not choose this one. I offered Miss Tabris a ride. She asked to be brought here. Imagine my surprise when we arrived to the sound of gunfire.”

Juliet’s worry about being arrested was suddenly replaced with a new and much more terrifying fear. “Naia? Where is she?”

“We split up to find you more quickly,” Fenris said—slightly distractedly, for he was handcuffing the assailant. “You took care of this group swiftly, however. I’m sure she will find us …”

“The shooter got away,” Alistair interrupted. His eyes met Juliet’s in shared panic. “Come on. We’ve got to find her.”

Juliet half expected that Fenris would order her to halt, to stay put while he figured out what to do with an apostate mage that he’d worked side-by-side with for a good chunk of his career. She wasn’t going to do that, of course—not with Naia at stake. Maybe he knew it, because he said nothing as she, Varric, and Alistair began racing down the alley.

It was Juliet who found the small dead-end alley first. She raised her hand to summon Varric and Alistair—and then found herself frozen in place as she watched what was unfolding inside.

The two elves were engaged in the fastest fistfight Juliet had ever seen. Both participants were precise and fearless, both utterly committed to the exchange. One of them would strike out, the other would dodge, a second strike would be blocked, and then the rhythm would reverse. The back-and-forth was almost like a dance, and for a moment, Juliet could only watch, utterly mesmerized.

It took her another moment to realize that Naia was losing.

Naia was a smart, instinctive street fighter, and she had the speed advantage over her opponent. However, the assassin was stronger than she was, and better-trained. When Naia blocked his blows, it was always at the last moment, a just-barely evasion of his strikes; the assassin, on the other hand, seemed to anticipate her moves.

Just as Juliet had that revelation, the assassin broke through Naia’s defenses. His palm landed squarely against her neck and he shoved her back against the wall, a delighted, predatory grin on his face. “I win.”

Naia smiled back. “You sure about that?”

Juliet knew her cue when she heard it. She snapped a strand of her magic through the air, cracking it like a whip against the back of the assassin’s neck. It was one of her father’s favorite spells. Done gently, it would disorient. Done firmly—as she had just done it—it would knock the target out cold.

The assassin’s body jerked in surprise, then immediately swayed and began to collapse. Naia, to Juliet’s surprise, caught him beneath the arms and softened his collapse to the ground.

“Took you long enough to get here,” she said as she straightened. “ _Fuck,_ he’s tough.” She touched her cheek as she said that, and Juliet saw the beginnings of an ugly black eye forming.

“Why didn’t you yell for help?” Juliet asked, stepping closer to get a good look at the injury.

“I thought it would be easier for you to sneak up on him if he wasn’t watching for you. Besides, I knew you’d find me sooner or later.” Naia grinned unrepentantly.

Juliet gave her partner a flat, exasperated look. She’d said something to Varric once about Naia’s infuriating disregard for her own safety. Varric had stared at her for a minute, then laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. Juliet was self-aware enough to realize that laughter was probably the right reaction when the pot called the kettle black. Still, it didn’t mean she had to like it when her best friend got hurt.

“I’ve got ice back at the bar,” Alistair offered, wincing as he got a good look at Naia’s face.

“No need, Mr. Guerrin.”

Fenris entered the alley on silent feet, his eyes sweeping the scene as he pieced together what had happened. “We have medics back at the Guard house—where you will all be giving statements. You are _not_ being charged with anything,” he added as Varric opened his mouth. “At least, not yet.” His eyes flickered over to Juliet; her stomach clenched.

“My clients and I will keep that in mind,” the dwarf said. When Fenris returned his attention to the unconscious assassin, Varric met Juliet's eyes and nodded slightly, then put one finger over his lips, pantomiming silence. She took a deep breath.

_Well. I guess I’ve always known I’d find myself here someday. At least I’ve got a good lawyer._


	15. Chapter 15

It was always strange being in the Guard house after quitting the Guard. But Juliet found it doubly strange to sit at an interrogation table, staring at the wrong side of the one-way glass and knowing that she was going to be the one _answering_ questions in this dim grey room. She stared at her reflection, wondering if the suspects she’d brought in over the years had also noticed how sallow and yellow they looked in the artificial light.

“Think anyone’s watching?” Varric asked, following Juliet’s gaze. He’d put his feet up on the table and tilted the legs back. He looked almost relaxed—a real accomplishment given that the chairs were chosen specifically for their lack of padding and back support. Alistair was still shifting uncomfortably on his, trying to find a way to rest his six-foot frame on the flimsy piece of furniture.

“I don’t think so. It’s the middle of the night and they’ve got arrests to process.” Even so, Juliet narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, trying to catch just the right light to see behind the mirrored surface.

Naia stood and approached the mirror, pressing her nose to the glass. “Nope. Looks empty back there,” she reported cheerfully. “They’re probably just recording us remotely.” As she backed up, she touched two fingers to her left cheek and winced at her reflection.

Juliet winced along with her. The bruise, a long oval across the top of Naia’s cheekbone, was swelling her friend’s eye shut from the bottom lid upward. The skin was scraped and a little trail of dried blood had smeared its way towards her jaw. Naia claimed it wasn’t as bad as it looked but it had to hurt like hell. Juliet itched to reach for her magic—a little touch could have knit the bruised flesh back together and forced the pooling blood back into the arteries and veins—but even if she offered, she knew Naia wouldn’t let her expose herself that way, not in a Guard interrogation room.

She pushed her chair back from the table; the metal legs shrieked and vibrated as they scraped across the linoleum. “Hang on. We used to keep bags of frozen vegetables in the coffee room. I think it will help with the swelling.”

Naia’s hopeful expression spoke volumes about her discomfort. Juliet kept an unhurried pace as she opened the door, but broke into a jog the moment it closed behind her. Fortunately the coffee room was close to the interrogation suites—probably by design, since late nights usually required caffeine.

The Guard coffee room was a narrow kitchenette that contained a refrigerator, microwave, a wall of fake wood cabinets trimmed by a green countertop, and two coffee pots. It also had two peeling vinyl chairs and a wobbly table that, as far as Juliet knew, no one ever used. It looked almost exactly as she’d left it three years ago, down to the coffee grounds spilling across the counter and that mysterious yellow stain on the rough white surface of the refrigerator. Juliet pulled open the top freezer compartment and peered inside. Sure enough, several bags of mixed carrots and onions—presumably the frozen vegetable on sale that week—sat there, waiting for their turn to ice an injury acquired on the job.

“Hungry?”

Juliet jumped. For once, she didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “Maker, Fenris. Do you make _any_ noise when you walk?”

Fenris peered over her shoulder curiously. “We may lack desirable snack options, but I am sure we can do better than frozen onions.”

“It’s not for food. It’s for Naia’s eye.” Juliet reached in and grabbed a bag, suddenly eager to get out of the room before he remembered what he’d learned tonight.

Fenris raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise as she shut the freezer door. “I would have thought … can you not?”

Juliet frowned, puzzled. “Can I not … what?”

He gestured vaguely towards her hands. “I would have thought you had more immediate solutions for that sort of problem.”

_And here we are._

Juliet drew a deep, painful breath, steeling herself for the question she had to ask. “Are you going to arrest me?” _Try to arrest me, at any rate,_ she amended silently.

She expected him to hesitate, to mull it over before answering. Instead, his response was almost immediate. “No. If I were going to arrest you for that particular, ah, quality, I would have done so years ago.”

Juliet blinked several times in succession as she tried to process what that meant. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. You—you _knew_?” Stunned, she dropped the vegetables on the countertop and leaned back against the cabinets, suddenly unsure if her legs could support her weight.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I suspected.” Fenris’s voice was low. He leaned closer, resting his hand against the countertop, and his eyes scanned the hallway outside before he continued. “I noticed that you did not shy away from cases involving apostates—and that you were able to resolve them successfully.” He met her eyes. “I know how dangerous magic is when wielded against those who cannot match it. I drew the obvious conclusion.”

“And you never said anything?” Juliet asked skeptically, keeping her voice low as well. “Why?” This was messing with her entire understanding of Fenris. She would have expected him to call the Templars—or come after her himself—the minute he had reason to believe she was using magic.

He shrugged. “You had not seen fit to share it with me. Telling you what I had deduced seemed intrusive, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “No, I meant—why didn’t you turn me in?”

“You were helping people. And you had been a friend,” he said simply. “Had I thought you a danger to anyone I would have acted.”

Juliet crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. “Uh. Thanks, I think.”

“Not every mage has the strength of will to resist demons, or the character to resist using their powers for personal gain,” Fenris continued seriously. “You clearly did.”

He obviously meant it as a compliment, but Juliet felt a helpless, tired sort of rage rise within her. She leaned her head back against the cabinets and closed her eyes with a sigh. “I’m not _special,_ Fenris. Plenty of mages are just like me. No demons, no blood sacrifices. Just—just _people._ ”

The elf shook his head, his silver hair shining in the fluorescent light. “You hold people in higher esteem than I do, Hawke. You underestimate how rare it is for someone to have your kind of power and use it wisely.”

Juliet took a weary breath but said nothing. _This isn’t something we’re going to resolve at two in the morning, not after a night like this one._ Fenris had reason—good reason—to distrust magic. She just wished he could see that she wasn’t the only mage who used their magic well.

“It is good to see you in here again,” Fenris said abruptly.

She smiled, grateful for the change in topic. “Really? I was just thinking about how strange it always is to come back here.” She looked down at the familiar countertop and realized that the bag of vegetables was sitting there, water beading on its plastic surface, still waiting to be taken to Naia. “Speaking of that, I should get back to my interrogation room.”

“Hawke.”

Something in Fenris’s tone made her stomach twist nervously—or maybe it was the way that he was staring down at his hand, still resting against the cracked green linoleum.

His voice was so quiet she almost had to strain to hear his next words. “Did you—did you leave the Guard because of me?”

Juliet felt every cell in her body go still. _Just when I thought we’d already set a record for the most awkward conversation ever._

They had never talked about their one-night stand, though Juliet had imagined such a conversation dozens of times over the years. Sometimes, she pictured herself breezily dismissing the incident as no big deal. Other times, when she was feeling particularly low, she told the imaginary Fenris how much it had hurt to watch him walk out with barely a backwards glance. She had wondered if he regretted the way he left things that night, or if he only regretted coming home with her in the first place. But she had never expected that he might think she left the Guard because of it.

“No,” she said honestly, turning to face him. “It was awkward, seeing you at work afterwards. I won’t lie about that. But I left because everything else was going too well. The faster I got promoted, the more I was going to be scrutinized. I didn’t know that you’d already put it together, but I figured it was just a matter of time before someone did.” In retrospect, joining the Guard had been almost suicidally risky. But she had been so tired of feeling like she had to stay in the shadows, invisible and ashamed.  

“Long story short, I left for my own reasons.” She faked a nonchalant smile, even though his gaze was still on his hand. “So don’t worry about it. We’re not the first co-workers who had a few drinks at a party and did something they regret. Although I hope you don’t tell all the people you sleep with that the sex was a horrible mistake,” she teased—not entirely gently. “You’re going to have a hard time dating if you do.”

Fenris’s mouth tightened. “I—there have been no other people.”

“In three years?” Juliet felt her eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“In … longer than that. Perhaps there was someone before the ritual. I do not remember. But afterwards, no. There was no one until …” His voice trailed off.

_Oh, shit. Andraste’s white and dimpled ass. That was—I was his first?_

Juliet felt as if she’d been punched square in the gut. She had to catch her breath before answering. _Maker._ It made an odd sort of sense, now that she thought about it—she had known he was uneasy when people touched him. It had been the biggest reason she hadn't acted on her crush until he kissed her. But she had been the one to invite him home, the one to begin unfastening buttons, the one to open the door to her bedroom. How could she not have realized?

“Maker. You never wanted—I didn’t mean to push—I’m _sorry,_ Fenris,” she blurted.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Fenris was still looking to the side, staring at the counter, but then his head swiveled and those dark green eyes met hers. “I did nothing that night that I had not imagined doing for months before.”

Juliet swallowed, trying very hard not to picture exactly what he had done that night, or what she had done in response. She hugged her arms across her chest. “I had been thinking about it for a while, too,” she admitted quietly.

Their confessions hung in the air between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, Fenris cleared his throat. “I—I should get back to work. Someone will be in to take your statements shortly, I promise.”

As he stepped through the doorway, Juliet almost called out to him, a question on the tip of her tongue—but before she could decide if she should ask it, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Consciousness returned slowly, in little flickers and twitches of his limbs. As he tried to open his eyes, Zevran took stock of his injuries—a few bruises here and there, a swollen nose, and an unsurprising ache in the back of his head, but nothing too alarming. Instinctively, he reached his hand up to see if there was a lump on his skull—but was greeted with a sharp _clang_ of steel. His right wrist was handcuffed to a metal rail.

That woke him up in a hurry.

He was reclining on a firm, narrow bed, the quiet _beep_ of a medical monitor sounding beside his ear. His wrists and ankles were shackled, and on the wall, he saw a familiar green-and-grey seal—a Guard clinic, then, reserved for injured suspects.

Since it was his only option, he laughed. _Apparently I won’t be surviving this mission after all._ A Crow in Guard custody had roughly the same life expectancy as a frog in boiling water. The Guildmasters would forgive some mistakes—albeit at a price—but getting caught was not one of them.

A little _click_ of plastic and the sound of a dial tone caught his attention. A stout human orderly was hunched over a desk in the corner, punching numbers into a phone. “Detective? He’s awake.”

Detective Fenris Leto had evidently been waiting on this call. Barely two minutes later, the striking Tevinter elf pushed open the door to the infirmary, a notebook and pen clutched in one hand. He looked rumpled and short on sleep; the corners of his mouth were turned down in an unfriendly scowl. Evidently the Detective was not the type of investigator who coaxed confessions out by pretending to be a friend.

Zevran couldn’t help himself. He ran his eyes up and down the Detective’s frame, then met his gaze with an insolent smile. “Detective. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must admit, I would usually be delighted to find myself handcuffed to a bed by such a handsome man.”

The other elf’s scowl deepened. “Please believe me when I tell you I’m not in the mood for nonsense,” he growled in a cultivated Tevinter accent. “What is your name?”

“Ah. Pardon, how rude of me. Zevran Arainai at your service.” Zevran inclined his head, the closest gesture to a bow that he could manage under the circumstances.

“Mr. Arainai. My name is Detective Fenris Leto. You have been officially bound for questioning by the Denerim Guard.” The Detective’s voice was clipped and cool. He raised his notebook, as if to read from it, but Zevran could tell that he was merely seeking someplace else to set his gaze. “We have you for assault on a Guard consultant, and as soon as we reassemble that gun, we’ll have you for attempted murder as well. I am here to give you an opportunity …”

“To throw myself upon your not-so-tender mercies, yes?” Zevran finished smoothly. “You want me to spill my secrets and buy protection for myself? Very well. I accept.”

The Detective greeted this declaration with an appropriate amount of skepticism. He lowered the notebook and stared at Zevran, studying him as he tried to decide how to respond. “You accept,” he repeated.

“I must warn you, protecting me will be no easy task. The guild of assassins to which I belong is rather uncompromising when it comes to failure. The moment they find out I was arrested, I will be marked for death.” Zevran smiled. “Unless, of course, there is no record of my presence here—no arrest report, and certainly no formal charges.”

“So you want full immunity,” the Detective said flatly. “Can you tell me who hired you to kill Alistair Guerrin?”

“Not directly, no.” Candor was probably best under the circumstances. “The client was very secretive. But I can and will tell you everything I know—how I was paid, how I was contacted, and what my contact looked like.”

The Detective scrawled a few notes down. “I will consult with our Guard-Captain about what we can offer you,” he said. “We will, of course, take into account the fact that two of the men you hired are now dead.”

Zevran raised his eyebrows. “Only two? The bodyguard showed mercy, then. The little gang I assembled was rather outmatched. An impressive woman.”

A pained expression flashed across the Detective’s face. It was quickly gone, but Zevran filed away the reaction for further analysis.

“Speaking of impressive women,” he continued. “I have one minor condition. I wish to give my statement to your consultant. The red-haired elf who interrupted my escape.”

The pen’s movement stopped. Slowly, the Detective lowered the pad of paper and looked up at Zevran. “To what end?” The question was filled with quiet menace.

“She intrigues me. And a confession is always more pleasant when delivered to a lovely face. Besides, I find myself longing for the traditional game of good cop, bad cop.” He flashed the Detective a smile. “I will let you guess which one you are.”

The Detective slid his notebook into the pocket of his jacket. “I will see what I can do, Mr. Arainai.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair was nearly drifting off to sleep, his arms crossed on the table and his forehead resting against them, when the door to the interrogation room opened. Juliet walked back in with a towel wrapped around what he assumed were the promised vegetables. Without a word, she handed them to Naia.

He didn’t know the mage well enough to interpret her stiff expression, but the other two did. Naia frowned in concern and Varric whistled through his teeth. “Shit. That bad?” the dwarf asked.

“Well, I ran into Fenris. The good news is that he isn’t going to arrest me, because apparently he’s known for years.” Juliet sat down in her chair with a thump. “The bad news—is something I’ll tell you later. Maybe. But it’s not going to land any of us in jail.”

Alistair released a relieved breath. The thought of Juliet taken to a Circle because of him had been deeply unnerving. An apostate with her power could be a prime candidate for Tranquility, if the wrong Templar leaders took an interest. But apparently her history with the terrifying Detective was complicated enough to earn her a pass this time.

Naia held the towel against her eye and sighed happily. “Thanks, Hawke.”

The four of them sat there, occasionally chatting, occasionally sitting in exhausted silence, for what seemed like hours. Just as Alistair was debating calling Eamon for help—what was the use of a really awkward political connection if you couldn’t call from a Guard house at three in the morning, after all—when the door opened again.

Two figures entered. The first was Detective Leto. The second was a tall, broad-shouldered, ginger-haired woman whose Guard uniform looked entirely too crisp and comfortable for this hour of the night. She closed the door and crossed her arms, staring over their little band. Alistair instinctively sat up straighter. There was something about this woman that said _command._ And also _I am not going to take your crap._ He had the sudden, ridiculous image of this Guardswoman and Cullen Rutherford engaged in an “intimidating glare” contest. He wondered who would win.

“I am Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen,” the woman said without preamble. “You four, alas, need no introduction.”

Alistair couldn’t help himself. “Is the assassin awake? What does he say? Who hired him?”

The Guard-Captain looked over at Alistair, but to his dismay, she answered his questions with one of her own.  “All in good time, Mr. Guerrin. Would you mind sharing why you felt it necessary to hire your own investigators, when you knew there was an active Guard inquiry into the shooting at the Dockside?”

Alistair opened his mouth to answer, but Varric spoke first. “Unless you have evidence that he hired Tabris Investigations specifically to interfere with Detective Leto’s inquiry, Guard-Captain, Mr. Guerrin has nothing to answer for. There’s nothing even remotely illegal about hiring a private detective to act as a bodyguard. And tonight Hawke here saved his life.”

The Captain nodded, acknowledging the point. “Meanwhile, her partner caught the ringleader.” She looked over at Naia.

Naia gave her a little wave. “Hi. Yep, that was me.”

Fenris spoke for the first time. “It appears you made an impression,” he said wryly. “The man is awake. His name is Zevran Arainai, and he alluded to being a member of a guild of assassins. Does that seem familiar?”

The question was directed specifically at Alistair, but all four of them shook their heads in unison. Fenris sighed, not bothering to hide a bit of disappointment. “He is willing to give a statement, but he wishes to give it to you.” This, he directed at Naia.

Naia arched her eyebrow—the one above her uninjured eye. “He knows I’m not with the Guard, right? I was consulting for you tonight, sure, but that’s not why I was in that alley. Can I even take a formal statement for the Guard?”

“You can if we extend you a consultant’s contract for this case. Which it appears that I have no choice but to do.” The Captain did not sound happy about this idea. “Let me be very clear, Ms. Tabris. I believe that you, your partner, your lawyer, and Mr. Guerrin have information about the Dockside shooting that you have not seen fit to share. That annoys me. But there are more serious issues in Denerim than whatever secrets a Councilman’s coddled son might be hiding.”

Alistair felt himself bristle at that description, but Varric laid a hand on his forearm and shook his head slightly.

“So.” The Guard-Captain met eyes with Juliet, and then Naia. “We will hire Tabris Investigations as consultants on this investigation. You will cooperate with Detective Leto to the utmost of your ability, including acting as a handler to our picky new informant. And you will solve this case so that I don’t have to worry about any more calls from Eamon Guerrin. Is that clear?”

Alistair felt his eyebrows rise. _Eamon’s been calling?_ He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. _No wonder she thinks I’m spoiled._

Naia, Juliet, and Varric exchanged looks. Whatever passed between them in those glances, it appeared they were in agreement. Naia stood and offered her hand. “It’s a deal, Guard-Captain.” She flashed the other woman a smile. “You’ll have our first invoice on your desk by the morning.”

“I look forward to it,” the Guard-Captain said wryly, accepting the handshake.


	16. Chapter 16

Varric agreed to take Alistair back to his motel. After a vigorous argument Alistair agreed to go too, but only because Fenris told him that watching a Guard interview with his own assassin was incredibly illegal, even for a Councilman’s son. The idea of Juliet going home and getting some sleep while Naia dealt with Zevran Arainai, however, was soundly rejected. Naia had expected that it would be, but she still wanted to make the offer.

“Remember, I am right behind that two-way glass if you need anything. Fenris will be there too,” Juliet told her for the second or third time as they waited for the Detective to retrieve the assassin. She narrowed her eyes at Naia’s bruise. “Here. Let me fix that for you. It’ll just take a second. No one will notice.”

Naia almost accepted—then something occurred to her. She shook her head. “I think it might be better to let him see me like this.”

Juliet’s expression shifted; her mouth twisted and her eyebrows drew down as she looked at Naia. It was the look she got when she was trying to think of a gentle way to say, “Naia, you’re being delusional.” 

Naia held up a hand to hold her off. “I know, I know. But he tried to talk me into going away. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me.”

“He kills people for money, Naia,” Juliet replied bluntly. “He’s not going to lose a lot of sleep over giving you a black eye.”

“Probably not,” Naia admitted. “But I still want to try. Besides, if Aveline Vallen sees me with a mysteriously healed face, she’s going to ask questions.” She had to be asking them already if she’d gotten a head count on the alleyway fight. Eight on three should have been much tougher odds, but Juliet, Varric, and Alistair had walked away with barely a single scratch between them. 

“The second we leave this place we’re fixing that,” Juliet grumbled, pointing at the offending eye.

“I’ll sit still like a good girl and take my medicine,” Naia promised. “Now go make faces at me behind that one-way mirror. I bet Fenris will think that’s hilarious.”

Her friend was chuckling as she left the little room. 

Naia settled into her metal chair and tried not to look too nervous as she waited. The relentless dinginess of the room—the cheap metal chairs, the linoleum floors, the unflattering yellow lights overhead—was starting to feel a bit oppressive. To pass the time, she examined the buttons on the heavy rectangular tape recorder she would be using—but it was a standard five-button machine that let you pause, play, rewind, fast-forward, and record. Not exactly a mind-bending puzzle even this late at night. 

It was only a few more minutes before the door opened. 

The blonde elf shuffled in, his legs shackled together and his wrists handcuffed in front of him. His blonde hair was slightly matted from spending an evening under a stocking cap, and his heavy coat was gone, leaving him in a close-fitting grey t-shirt with long sleeves and a battered pair of cargo pants that might once have been black. Naia, no stranger to the art of mixing greys to go unnoticed at night, couldn’t help a mental tip of the hat. Fenris hovered close behind the other man—not holding his arm, as most detectives would have done, but standing close enough to make it clear that escape would be unwise and probably suicidal.

Naia tilted her chin up to meet the assassin’s gaze. Her punch had swollen his nose, but probably not broken it, and he too bore a few scrapes from their tussle, though nothing as ugly as her bruise. A little smile curved the man’s lips—but it froze for a moment when he got a good look at her eye.

Fenris broke the silence. “As you can see, we have agreed to your request. Ms. Tabris has been hired as a Guard consultant on the Dockside shooting case. She is, for the purposes of this investigation, a Guard employee—but she is also a civilian.” Fenris rested a hand on the assassin’s shoulder and leaned close, his voice low and his eyes narrow. “If you give her offense, or attempt to harm her, I will take it  _ very personally _ .” 

Most people who saw Fenris glowering at them that way would have wet themselves. The assassin met Fenris’s eyes with an impudent grin. “So protective! Thank you for the warning. But I assure you I have no such intentions.”

He turned his face towards Naia. “Ms. Tabris, is it? My name is Zevran Arainai. I am pleased to finally have a formal introduction.” He inclined his head briefly. “Under normal circumstances I would offer a beautiful woman such as yourself a more elegant bow, but I am, you see, somewhat constrained at the moment.”

“I’ll let it slide,” Naia assured him wryly as he sat in the chair opposite hers. She glanced up at Fenris and nodded; he stepped out of the room on silent feet.

Naia and Zevran were alone.

She saw the assassin glance towards the tape recorder. She decided not to reach for it yet.  _ Establish a rapport first. _ She shifted on her chair and leaned forward over the table, resting her elbows comfortably with her arms crossed in front of her. “How’s the Guard treating you?”

“This has actually been most interesting.” Zevran mimicked her posture as best he could, resting his cuffed wrists in front of him on the table. “It may surprise you to learn that I have never been arrested before. I try to enjoy new experiences. They happen so rarely.” He grinned at her. “Now then. How do you intend to make me talk? I can offer some suggestions, if you are interested.”

“You asked me to come here,” Naia pointed out. “Whether or not you talk is entirely up to you, Mr. Arainai.”

The assassin tilted his head back and groaned. “‘Mr. Arainai?’ So formal! How am I to charm a woman who will not even use my name?”

Naia decided to ignore the flirtation. She leaned back and tapped the fingers of her right hand against the table, doing her best imitation of Varric in a moment of particularly strategic nonchalance. “Guess I’ll remain uncharmed. Sorry. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” 

She reached out a single figure and hit the orange  _ Record  _ button. “This is Guard consultant Tabris questioning Zevran Arainai, a suspect in an attempted assault on Alistair Guerrin and two friends earlier this evening.” She rattled off the date and time, hoping that she was close. It was late and her brain was a bit fuzzy on those kinds of details.

“Were you hired to kill Alistair Guerrin, Mr. Arainai?”

To her relief, the other elf did not evade the question. “I was—or, to be more accurate, my guild was. I am a member of an organization called the Antivan Crows. The Guildmasters accepted the contract, and I in turn accepted the assignment.”

He saw Naia open her mouth and guessed her next question. “I fear, alas, that I do not know the name of the person or organization who took out that contract. I have met but one person involved—a local contact who passed along the name of the target and told me where I would find my payment.”

Naia’s pulse quickened. “Tell me about this contact.”  _ Please, Maker, let it be someone we know. _

“He did not give a name. He was a human—pale, rather like yourself, though with brown hair. He was around twenty-five years old, and most nervous. I suspect that he was a mage. When I reached for something in my pocket, he reacted by raising his hands, and I felt that odd ripple in the air one feels when magic is near.” He raised an eyebrow. “I suspect you must be quite familiar with that particular sensation.”

Naia felt her smile go rigid. “Oh, really?” she asked innocently. Consultant’s contract or not, she couldn’t be sure who would be listening to this tape—and there was only so much Fenris could do to protect Juliet if others in the Guard knew she was a mage. “I actually don’t know that much about magic. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.” She narrowed her eyes a bit, trying to make it clear that Zevran should let this topic lie.  _ Rat Juliet out and you’ll walk out of here with no teeth. _

To her relief, Zevran changed the subject. “I assure you, I would not lie to such a lovely woman,” he replied with an outrageous wink.

“Yes, you would,” Naia shot back. “You did in the bar. ‘Heartbreak’ my ass.”

A shadow passed across the assassin’s battered face. It was gone quickly, replaced by his previous amused smirk, but Naia knew she hadn’t imagined it. “Ah, yes. Well. I promise I will not lie to you in the future.” He tilted his head at her. “It occurs to me that I do not know your name. Your given name, I mean.”

“It’s Naia.” She decided to chance a little test. “You know, a gentleman would’ve gotten my full name  _ before _ punching me in the face.” 

She kept her tone light and unaccusing. After all, it had been a fair fight—she’d been outmatched, but that didn’t mean he’d played dirty. Still, she was interested to see whether the man who had tried to talk a witness into walking away was still in there.

The assassin gave a mock-offended scoff. “I beg your pardon. If you recall, you struck me first. I was being  _ very _ gentlemanly and giving you the opportunity to leave.” His light brown eyes glittered merrily, crinkling with amusement at the corners; he knew she was trying to manipulate him. He gestured at her eye. “Is that why you wore that particular accessory to our interview? You thought I would feel remorse?”

Naia shrugged. “Do you?”

All friendliness and charm slid from Zevran’s expression. He stared into Naia’s eyes, calm and unblinking. “No,” he said quietly. “I said I would not lie to you, so here is the truth. I do not. I did what I did in pursuit of my goal—which was killing your client. Had I deemed it necessary, I would have killed you too.”

Naia did not let herself flinch, or let her gaze waver. “I don’t suppose you survive long in your business if you feel remorse,” she said matter-of-factly.

His mouth twitched slightly at the corner. “No. You do not.”

“It would have been faster to just shoot me, though,” she observed.

“I had already dismantled my gun,” he said with a shrug. “Perhaps I could have done things more efficiently. I did my best. It was not my fault that my foe was so disarmingly beautiful.” The impudent grin was back.

Naia rolled her eyes. She paid for it—her bruise howled in protest—but at least she got her point across. “How long have you been a member of the Antivan Crows?” Everything she knew about that particular guild came from one of Varric’s novels, so she was willing to assume she knew nothing accurate.

Zevran frowned a bit. “I am not quite certain how to answer that. I was eight when the Crows adopted me.”

“Adopted you?” Naia couldn’t conceal her curiosity. “Why would a guild of assassins adopt a kid?”

Zevran blinked at her for a moment, as if surprised to find her so slow on the uptake. “To train me to become one of them. The Crows are most secretive—they trust only the assassins they select and raise from childhood. It is the only way to become a Crow, in fact.” He chuckled. “Alas, we are not invited to Career Day, even at Antivan schools.”

Naia was starting not to like the Crows very much. “Where did you live before then?”

“With my mother’s former co-workers. She was a prostitute—fortunately at a relatively clean brothel. When she died during my birth, the other whores took me in.” From his light tone, Zevran might as well have been discussing the weather. “They were good to me. Then the Crows offered to take me off their hands and promised them a generous sum in exchange. They could hardly say no, though I think a few of them were sorry to see me leave.”

Naia tried to keep her indignation from her face. But when she saw the assassin’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, she suspected that she hadn’t been successful.  _ He can tell that story upsets me.  _ He was doubtless filing that information away for future use. It was what Naia would have done.

“So they raised you to be an assassin. How long did that take?”

“It was another nine years or so before they confirmed me as a full-fledged member of the Crows.” 

_ Seventeen. Maker.  _ Of course, at sixteen she’d been breaking into homes owned by Denerim’s most dangerous people. But that had been teenaged stupidity combined with righteous indignation about what rich shems could get away with in the alienage. No one had taken away her childhood to turn her into a criminal.

“So I suppose the answer to your initial question, then, is eleven. I’ve been a member of the Antivan Crows for eleven years.” He smiled almost nostalgically. “Tonight’s, ah, mishaps aside, I really was very good at it.”

_ Was. Was good at it. Interesting.  _

“If you say so,” Naia said with a little arch to her eyebrow. “All right. Let’s talk about the contract on Alistair.”

*

Slowly, painstakingly, Naia and Zevran covered the details of the assignment that had brought him to Denerim. Zevran had made initial contact with the nervous mage at a nondescript bar a few blocks from the Dockside. To Naia’s surprise, Zevran had initially been told to “send a message,” but leave Alistair alive. After that, he was supposed to await further instructions. He’d hired Sean Harven and Gorv Potts to preserve his anonymity for the second half of the assignment. Two mornings after the Dockside shooting, a muffled voice on the phone at his safe house instructed him to kill Alistair Guerrin within the week.

“We’ll pull the phone records for the address he gave us,” Fenris told her and Juliet once Zevran was escorted away to a cell. “And we’ll have him sit down with our sketch artist tomorrow morning to get a better look at this contact.” He looked over the two of them. “Now go home and get some sleep.”

“Shouldn’t you do that too?” Naia asked through an enormous yawn. 

His mouth twitched. “I rarely sleep well,” he said wryly. “I’ll call you when we have the sketch.”

“Make it after noon?” Juliet suggested, covering a yawn of her own.

 

* * *

 

By an unspoken agreement, Juliet went home with Naia that morning—her building was closer than Juliet’s, and the mage wasn’t sure if she could handle the extra ten minutes’ trip. It was six a.m. when they pushed open the door to Naia’s apartment. Naia took Dog for a quick bathroom break while Juliet borrowed Naia’s spare toothbrush and a large t-shirt left behind by a human ex-boyfriend. Then the two of them fell into a hard, dreamless sleep, side-by-side on Naia’s bed.

It was near eleven when Juliet startled awake, rattled by the sound of a garbage truck on the street beneath Naia’s window. She turned her head cautiously, not wanting to wake her friend, but Naia was still dead to the world. She had turned onto her stomach and one arm hung off the side of the bed as she slumbered. She had let Juliet heal her eye—not all the way, since they didn’t want anyone at the Guard to get suspicious, but enough to ease the pain and the swelling—and Juliet felt a little pang of relief to see it looking better.

Silently, she slipped from the bed and went into Naia’s kitchen, seeking coffee. The pot was nearly finished brewing when Naia joined her.

“Maker bless you,” the elf sighed happily, inhaling the scent.

Five minutes later both women were ravenously digging into their breakfasts and had demolished the entire pot of coffee. “So. Fenris knows you’re a mage. I have to admit I didn’t see that coming.” Naia arched an eyebrow as she drank her last few sips. 

“I didn’t either,” Juliet admitted. “But apparently he’s decided I’m not going to go mad from power and start sacrificing the citizenry.” She poked at the milky remains of her cereal with the tip of her spoon. She almost didn’t continue the story, but she had to tell  _ someone.  _ “And here’s the cherry on top of that sundae: He asked me about the night we slept together. He wanted to know if it’s why I left the Guard.”

Naia snorted. “Wow, he doesn’t lack for ego. He thinks you’d quit your job over him?” Then she saw Juliet’s expression. “Yikes. What did he say about it?”

Juliet wrestled quietly with just how much to reveal. What Fenris had told her was incredibly personal—sharing it, even with Naia, felt wrong. Finally, she settled on, “He said he’d been thinking about making a move on me for months before that night.”

“Then why the hell did he leave when it finally happened?” Naia asked indignantly.

“I don’t know,” Juliet admitted. Had he panicked because of his inexperience? That didn’t seem quite right—if that had been his worry, wouldn’t he have left before? “I wish I’d asked. I almost did. But I’m not sure it matters at this point.” She shook her head. “It was one night. It happened three years ago. It was probably a mistake. I guess I’m glad we talked it out, but it’s probably a good idea to just leave it there.”

Naia shook her head wonderingly. “And here I thought that Rivaini woman was your most complicated one-night stand.”

“Oh no, Fenris is much more complicated. Isabela just stole the cash out of my wallet.”  _ Worth it,  _ she thought silently. “I have to work with Fenris. Thanks for that, by the way.” She stuck her tongue out at her partner.

“I try to make life as agonizingly awkward for my friends as I can,” Naia agreed. She watched Juliet for another moment. “Are you OK with this? Really, I mean. I can take point on Alistair’s case if you want.”

Juliet smiled faintly. “Nah, I’m fine. I’m not walking away from the most interesting work we’ve had in years.”  _ And the most dangerous,  _ she added silently. This had been a thorny situation even before a professional assassin took a strangely personal interest in her best friend. Zevran had shown no open hostility during that interview, but the fact that he’d wanted Naia specifically still set Juliet’s teeth on edge. “Come on, let’s shower and head back to the Guard house. I want to see what that sketch looks like.”

 

* * *

 

For a moment Fenris let himself hope that Naia and Hawke would know the man in the sketch, but when Naia’s shoulders slumped and Hawke’s mouth turned down in a puzzled frown, he resigned himself to another day with no easy answers. “Sorry,” Naia said. “We’ll show Alistair. Maybe it’s someone he knows.”

Fenris reclaimed the sketch from them and studied it with a little frown. It was such an ordinary-looking face—brown hair, flat eyebrows, a pointed nose and a narrow chin—that he wondered if the assassin’s memory had failed him, or if he was making up the description as he went along.

But there was no sense giving up just yet. “Yes, please do show Mr. Guerrin. I’ve had a copy made, so take this one.” He extended the document across his desk towards Hawke; she took it carefully, never brushing his fingers with hers. Even so, the near miss brought their conversation to mind. 

_ Fasta vas, what was I thinking? What did I hope to achieve by bringing that up again? _

He knew the answer as soon as he asked himself the question. He hadn’t hoped to achieve anything. He had no right to expect that he could. But he had owed her an apology and an explanation. Even if it was a partial one, and one that was three years too late to make any difference.

“Detective?”

Fenris caught his breath, startled out of his thoughts. It took him a moment to recognize the voice, and when he did, he could not conceal his surprise. “Agent Trevelyan. What brings you back here?”

The Agent met his eyes with an easy smile as he wove his way through the maze of desks. His sword, strapped to his hip, caught the dim light of the room and almost seemed to glow. Behind him trailed Mei Surana, as calm and expressionless as ever, her black hair as smooth as a raven’s wing.

“We’re returning your files.” Agent Trevelyan held up a stack. “Thanks for these. There was some stuff in here we didn’t know about the local apostates scene.”

Belatedly, Fenris realized that he was going to have to introduce Hawke to a Templar. He kept his expression absolutely neutral as the pair approached. “Thank you for returning them so promptly. May I introduce two new consultants on the Guerrin case? Naia Tabris and Juliet Hawke of Tabris Investigations, meet Agent Maxwell Trevelyan and Enchanter Mei Surana.”

Fenris held his breath as Hawke and Agent Trevelyan shook hands, but it appeared that Templars could not sense mages by touch—the man had no reaction other than a polite “hello.”

Naia promptly stuck her hand out at Enchanter Surana. “Nice to meet you.” 

The Enchanter accepted the handshake after a surprised little pause. She studied Naia through slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to understand why the other elf had offered her hand. Fenris felt an unexpected sympathy for the silent mage. He understood being unused to courtesy.

Agent Trevelyan’s eye fell curiously on the sketch. “You have a suspect?” 

Then, unexpectedly, his mouth dropped open.

“Wait. Can I see that?”

Her eyebrows raised high, Hawke handed the paper over. Agent Trevelyan whistled under his breath and showed it to Enchanter Surana. “Is this who I think it is?”

Surana’s reaction was even more startling—her mouth dropped open and her face paled.

“You know him?” Fenris asked.

Enchanter Surana took a deep breath before answering. “I do—or did. He’s a former Circle mage named Jowan.”


	17. Chapter 17

At Max’s urging, the group moved to a more private area before discussing Jowan’s identity. The Detective found them a small conference room—a shabby one with a splintering wooden table, but surprisingly bright due to a large window. As Mei took her seat, she found herself quietly studying the two investigators. Since the Enchanters and Templars had their uniforms chosen for them, it had taken Mei a while to learn about the signals sent by clothing in the outside world. Naia Tabris wore jeans and a dark green hooded sweatshirt. The t-shirt underneath bore a logo and name that Mei didn’t recognize; she thought it might be a band, but wasn’t sure. Naia’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail, showing off her long, pointed ears. Mei suspected that wasn’t an accident. 

Hawke’s well-worn black leather jacket struck a more intimidating note. Her hair was loose and half concealed one eye, giving the impression of someone watching from a distance and waiting for her moment. She had an aura of cool confidence that Mei rather liked—it was somewhere between Detective Leto’s unsettling intensity and Naia Tabris’s easy cheerfulness. She wondered idly if she might be able to emulate it.

Max entered the room last, pulling the door gently behind him. The moment it latched shut he looked down at Detective Leto with a sympathetic grimace—an expression that said he was about to deliver bad news. 

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but if Jowan’s involved, the Templars will need to take over the case.”

“We don’t know that Jowan has used illegal magic,” Mei pointed out calmly, though in truth she was deeply worried.  _ Jowan, what happened to you? How did you end up tied to a murder for hire?  _ “Perhaps they should tell us more about how they obtained that sketch before we decide the case is ours.” She put a sharp little bite into the word  _ ours. _

Max looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Enchanter Surana? Jowan’s been on the Templars’ wanted list since he escaped the Circle.” 

When Mei stared back at him, uncomprehending, he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?” Hawke asked, her eyebrow raised. “We’ll need a bit more to go on if we’re going to be expected to hand over this case.”

“Right, that’s fair.” Max nodded and took a seat at the table. His handsome face was serious, and a little nervous. He blew out a breath, his eyes flickering over to Mei, then visibly collected himself before continuing. 

“This needs to be a Templar case because Jowan’s a blood mage.” 

Across the table, Fenris Leto stiffened, and Hawke’s mouth turned down in a concerned frown. 

“That’s ridiculous!” Mei burst out.

Max was so startled that he actually jumped. “Enchanter Surana …”

Mei drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself.  _ They won’t listen if you’re upset.  _ When she spoke, her voice was even and decisive once again. “Jowan wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She met the Detective’s eyes; finding no sympathy there, she looked to the two investigators, forcing her tone to be cool and rational. “I knew him quite well. He was an orphan, like me, given to the Circle as soon as his abilities manifested.” 

She regretted that little “like me” as soon as it escaped her lips. That was not important, and none of their business. She could see the little spark of sympathy in Naia Tabris’s eye, and for a moment she hated the other elf—both for the sympathy, and for the way her emotions showed on her face. She wondered if Naia knew what a luxury that was.

“He’s a kind man, and a bit hapless.” She mentally apologized to her former best friend, though she knew he would not disagree with her description. “We lost touch when I transferred to Montsimmard, I’ll admit, but I can’t see him ever turning to blood magic.”

The red-haired elf frowned and glanced over at her companions. It was Detective Leto who filled in the blanks. “Blood magic draws on the power held in blood—human, elven, or dwarven. Using it requires a compact with a demon.”

“Not necessarily,” Mei corrected, unable to stop herself. “Demon compacts require blood magic, it’s true, but blood magic can be used without demons. It just tends to attract them.” She realized as she said it that she wasn’t necessarily helping Jowan’s case.

“That sounds … bad,” Naia said. She looked at Max, her gaze suddenly piercing. “So why are you so sure Jowan uses it?”

“Because I saw him do it,” Max said bluntly.

Mei’s stomach roiled. That changed things. Max could be oblivious, but he wouldn’t make up something like that.

The big Templar leaned forward, his face serious as he began the story. “About eight months ago, we found out that Jowan was having an affair with a Templar trainee, a woman named Lily.”

Mei tried to keep the shock from her face.  _ Templars and mages can’t even be friends, Mei. Forget about Rutherford,  _ he’d said on more than one occasion. Hearing that he’d fallen for a Templar was unexpected, to say the least.

“When the Templar leadership found out, they investigated Jowan’s room and found evidence that he’d been teaching himself blood magic. There aren’t a lot of offenses that automatically carry a Tranquil’s sentence, but blood magic is one of them.”

_ If they find Jowan, they’ll make him Tranquil?  _ Mei’s hands closed on the arms of her metal chair as she tried not to faint.

“I was one of four Templars sent to confront him and bring him to the Knight-Commander for further questioning. Jowan used blood magic to escape,” Max said with a grimace. “He sliced his forearm with a knife in his sleeve, and used the power from his blood to knock all of us out. We should have been prepared. But we underestimated Jowan. He’d always been quiet, and like Enchanter Surana said, he was not one of the most talented mages.” He frowned seriously. “But that’s what blood magic can do. It can take a middling mage and give them enough power to do just about anything. That’s probably why he started using it.”

_ He started using blood magic because he knew he was a prisoner who might have his humanity burned out of him on your whim, you idiot. _

Mei almost said those words. Almost screamed them, really. But after a deep breath through her nose, she was able to draw them back into herself, to pull her boiling rage back down to a simmer. 

Gentle, hapless Jowan had become a blood mage. That was what the Circles did. 

And then guilt churned in Mei’s stomach.  _ I wasn’t there. Would Jowan have passed his Harrowing if I had been? Could I have helped him escape?  _

“Was Alistair involved in that incident?” Naia asked.

Max shook his head. “A trainee would never have been called to deal with something like that. As far as I know Alistair was sleeping soundly in the dormitory that night.”

“Could they have known each other, perhaps?” Mei could see the wheels turning in Detective Leto’s head.

“Maybe Jowan was afraid Alistair might recognize him,” Hawke said, picking up the elven detective’s train of thought.

“At this point it doesn’t matter,” Max replied bluntly. “Jowan’s a blood mage and he’s Templar business. If Jowan is involved in Alistair’s case, we need to be the ones investigating it.” He looked over at the Detective expectantly, as if the elf might be keeping the files in his back pocket at that very moment.

The Detective met his gaze, his mouth set stubbornly. “I am not unfamiliar with blood magic, or blood mages. I am confident that I—that  _ we  _ can handle your apostate.”

“I’m not questioning your competence, Detective.” Max put a placating hand on the table. “But the jurisdiction here is very clear-cut. I’m just telling you this so you can be prepared. When Knight-Commander Greagoir calls your Guard-Captain, she’ll have to hand over the investigation.”

Unexpectedly, the Detective’s mouth curved in a smile. 

“Thank you for the information, Agent Trevelyan,” he said, his voice serious but polite. “But we answer to the Guard-Captain, not to you or to your Knight-Commander. We will hand over the investigation when she tells us to do so. Not before.”

Mei got the sense that Greagoir was not going to find that an easy phone call.

*

After the Templar and Enchanter left, Fenris, Juliet, and Naia headed straight for Guard-Captain Vallen’s office. Aveline listened intently as Fenris recounted the conversation, her expression veering between annoyance and resignation.

“Can you stop them from taking the case?” Naia asked hopefully after Fenris had finished the tale.

“No,” Fenris, Aveline, and Juliet said in unison.

“I fear your Templar contact was right, unfortunately,” Aveline continued. “A blood mage is Templar jurisdiction.” 

Juliet frowned. “Once they have Jowan, I’m not sure they’ll care much about finding out who wants Alistair dead.”

“Agent Trevelyan would see the investigation through, I believe,” the Detective said thoughtfully. “But he is clearly assigned elsewhere at the moment, and I would not make that guess about every Templar.”

Naia nodded. “How long will it take them to swipe the case and shut us down?”

“That depends on how long I can avoid the Knight-Commander’s calls.” A little spark of mischief shone in the Guard-Captain’s eyes. “I will try to be difficult to reach. But by tomorrow morning, I expect the Templars will have their way.”

“So we have twenty-four hours to solve the case?” Naia couldn’t conceal a delighted grin. “Varric is going to love this.”

“I’m glad the challenge appeals to you,” the Guard-Captain said wryly. “Especially since I’m about to hand you three another one.”

*

As the group descended the stairs to the basement holding cells, Fenris let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

“Oh, come on. This isn’t the worst assignment we’ve ever had,” Juliet said encouragingly. “Remember the gang of thieves who kept their loot in the sewers? Those were really big rats.”

“I grew accustomed to the smell after an hour or so. And the rats did not ask the color of my undergarments.” Fenris shook his head. “I find it hard to imagine this man as a member of an assassin’s guild.”

“You didn’t have to fight him,” Naia pointed out. “He really asked about the color of your underwear? That’s weird.”

“I thought it rather strange myself,” the Detective replied.

“I mean, isn’t the answer kind of obvious?” Naia continued, her tone utterly innocent. “It’s black. It has to be. Wait—unless it’s green. Is it green?” 

Fenris chuckled with genuine amusement. The sound brought a little smile to Juliet’s face. Fenris wouldn’t have accepted that sort of teasing from just anyone. It was unexpected, and nice, to realize that he was beginning to consider Naia a friend.

“I think I will keep that information to myself,” he said dryly. After a pause, he shot an involuntary, somewhat abashed glance at Juliet, who of course knew exactly what color his underwear was—or had been three years ago, at any rate.

Juliet pretended not to notice, largely because it seemed like the option least likely to embarrass him. “Do you really think someone might come after him in Guard custody?”

“We have taken steps to ensure his anonymity. But the Crows have something of a reputation,” Fenris said, relief showing on his face. “I would not like to lose our best witness. Particularly with a ticking clock in the background.”

“So. We grab Zevran, go show Alistair the sketch of Jowan, and then … what?” Naia’s brow furrowed as she worked on the next step. “I guess that depends on what Alistair tells us.”

“Yes. Perhaps he had an enemy among the mages after all,” Fenris suggested.

“I doubt it,” Juliet said thoughtfully. Her mind rewound to Enchanter Surana’s reaction. The elven mage seemed like she usually had a hell of a poker face. Her surprise had been genuine, and powerful. “Jowan doesn’t sound like a man who carries violent personal grudges.”

“He’s a blood mage, Hawke,” Fenris replied, as if that ended the discussion. And it probably did, from his perspective.

“Right, but we only know about one time he used blood magic, and he cut himself to do it,” Naia pointed out. “I’m just saying he might not be a Tevinter-style criminal mastermind,” she added when Fenris opened his mouth to argue with her.

“Let us hope not,” the Detective murmured as they approached the door to the holding cells.

Zevran Arainai was standing, his forearms laced nonchalantly through the bars of his cell, when they entered the holding block. He gave them a lazy, pleased smile, almost as if he had expected them.

“Detective. Investigators. A pleasure to see you again.” His eyes sparkled as he looked them over. “Do you know, most of my best fantasies have started something like this.”

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. In spite of herself, Juliet had to chuckle. “I still say this is better than the sewers,” she murmured.

“I remain unconvinced,” Fenris whispered back.

 

* * *

 

The three of them kept him surrounded, Zevran noticed with approval as they made their way out of the Guard house. Naia took the lead, affording Zevran a most pleasant view. Fenris Leto hovered somewhere near his side, his eyes intent and his expression unfriendly. Juliet Hawke trailed behind. Though he could not see her, Zevran could feel her gaze at his back. 

Detective Leto’s car surprised him. It was a hulking black luxury car, but it was at least a decade old and dilapidated, its bumpers half eaten with rust. The interior was dusty and neglected, and Hawke had to slam the rear door twice before it would latch.

Zevran could not resist. “I hope you were not told this vehicle was a collector’s item, Detective.”

“I inherited it,” the Detective replied, in a tone that did not invite Zevran to inquire about the circumstances.

Of course, that didn’t stop him. “Ah. It has sentimental value, then?” 

Fenris turned the key in the ignition and the engine coughed reluctantly to life. “No.” 

Zevran could tell that the single word was all the answer he was going to get about that.

A short drive through an increasingly shabby neighborhood took them to a brick townhouse near the alienage district. They climbed the stairs to the second floor—again, with Naia in the lead, Fenris close to Zevran, and Hawke bringing up the rear. The easy way Naia turned her key in the lock told Zevran this place was hers, even before he saw the Tabris Investigations sign.

“Varric!” she called. “We’re here.”

As Naia pushed open the door, Zevran could see the dwarf from the bar sitting on a chair in a small waiting room. Alistair Guerrin was standing with his back at the wall, as far from the door as he could get. His expression darkened instantly as the group walked in, his eyes focused on Zevran. 

The dwarf raised his hand in a friendly wave. “Hey, Sparks. Hey, Hawke.” His voice cooled a bit as he looked at Fenris. “Detective.” Then his eyes settled on Zevran. “And .... you.”

The assassin was uncertain if he had been expected, so he bowed. “Zevran Arainai, at your service.” 

“Yeah. Hi. Varric Tethras at yours, et cetera.” The dwarf gave him an easy smile—though not entirely a friendly one. “So. The Guard kicked you out because they think they can’t protect you?”

“That is the official story,” Zevran replied. “I myself continue to hope that I was kidnapped for immoral purposes.” He turned his head to wink at Fenris, who glowered and made an irritated sound deep within his throat. 

“Dream on, Slick,” the dwarf said wryly. “Oh. And I feel it’s only fair to warn you: Pull anything funny and you’ll meet Bianca.”

Zevran arched an eyebrow in confusion. To his surprise, Alistair was the one who filled in the blank. “Bianca’s a shotgun.”

“She is not  _ a _ shotgun. You make her sound like some common weapon,” Varric complained.

Naia laughed. “Don’t question Bianca, Alistair,” she said with mock severity. “Now then. First things first.” She pulled a folded paper from her pocket as she crossed the room to her client. “Anyone you know?”

Alistair unfolded the paper eagerly. But his expression quickly turned puzzled. “Yeah, I’ve seen this guy before. He’s—oh, wow. This is the guy who escaped the Circle by using blood magic. Jowan.”

“How well did you know him?” Hawke asked. “Could he have any reason to want to hurt you?”

Alistair’s brow furrowed. “I don’t  _ think  _ so. We barely knew each other at all. I only remember his name because he was all anyone talked about for about a month after he escaped. I’d be surprised if he had any idea who I was.”

Naia shook her head. “This just keeps getting weirder. It seems like such an obvious connection—you used to be an almost-Templar, he used to be in a Circle. But I don’t think that’s it.” 

She paused and glanced at Fenris. An uncomfortable silence fell in the room.

“Hey, we never got lunch,” Hawke said suddenly. “I’ll go get us some sandwiches from that place around the corner. Zevran can help me carry them.”

Zevran chuckled. “Thank you for the invitation, Ms. Hawke. I would be delighted to allow the others to discuss Mr. Guerrin’s intimate secrets in private.”

*

“That place around the corner” was a bright little delicatessan with an elven owner and a largely elven and dwarven clientele. As a human, Hawke stood out, and Zevran noticed a few patrons tense—but they relaxed and returned to their food when the owner grinned at Hawke.

“Hey! Just you?”

“Six of us today, actually,” the mage replied. “Usual for me, Naia, and Varric. Add in … hm. Add in something with a lot of spice, and a good traditional Ferelden roast beef. What do you want, Zevran?”

Zevran regarded the piles of sliced meat and cheese in the counter with some puzzlement. He had yet to decipher how to order something in Ferelden that wasn’t boiled within an inch of its life and covered in gravy. “I will take whatever Ms. Hawke here usually orders,” he said after a pause.

That something turned out to be an unknown meat sandwich piled high with pickles. But it looked no worse than anything else he’d eaten in Ferelden, so Zevran did not protest.

As their order was assembled, Hawke studied him, not bothering to hide her scrutiny. Zevran met her eyes and smiled. “So. Do you think Mr. Guerrin will tell the Detective about his secret parentage?”

Hawke’s eyebrows rose. Zevran shrugged. “I tried to read up on the news from Denerim before coming here. It is a wonder more people do not guess Mr. Guerrin’s true origins. The resemblance between Mr. Guerrin and the late lamented Cailan Theirin is rather pronounced.”

“People see what they expect to see,” Hawke said nonchalantly—though Zevran thought she was still a bit startled that he’d made the connection. “Did Jowan have anything to say about that?”

“I am afraid not.” 

Zevran considered his next move for a long moment as the next sandwich was tied into its paper wrapper. He had hoped to make this proposal to Naia, who seemed to find him more amusing than her partner. But he was not certain when his next opportunity to speak with either of them away from Detective Leto might come.  _ I will have to make the attempt. _

“However, I may be able to provide further insight into my contact’s whereabouts.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “You lied to Naia?”

“No. I said nothing untrue. I simply omitted select facts.”

“Maker. You should have been a politician,” Hawke sighed. “All right. You held back for a reason. What do you want?”

Zevran grinned, pleased that she’d arrived there on her own. “Papers. Keeping my name out of the Guard’s records is, of course, a desirable first step in evading the attention of my former employers. But if I am truly to disappear, I will need a new identity. You and Ms. Tabris seem to be just the sort of people who would know how I can obtain one.”

The mage stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket and frowned in thought. After a moment, she turned her gaze back to him. “Deal. If your information is good, and useful, Varric can get you what you need. The new ID won’t be bulletproof, but it will be convincing. Good enough?”

“Good enough.” Zevran suspected that whatever Mr. Tethras generated would be very convincing indeed. “Very well, then. The bar where I met Jowan was, as I said, a nondescript place some blocks from the Dockside. What I did not tell Ms. Tabris, however, is that it is a meeting place for apostate mages. Jowan was known there. I suspect that if I lead you back to its door, the patrons may be able to tell you how to find him.”

Hawke’s eyes lit up, even as her mouth tightened in resignation. Zevran took that as a promising sign for his new identity.

 

* * *

 

“Here, kitty, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty.”

Anders knelt, the dormitory at his back, and patted the grass. It was just after lunch at the Circle, and it was another frigid afternoon, but he had not been able to resist sharing a little present with his friend. “I brought chicken,” he called softly, reaching into his pocket.

Those, evidently, were the magic words. A handsome grey tabby came bounding out of the bushes, then immediately slowed his pace, as if to conceal his enthusiasm. With a smile, Anders pulled the bits of pilfered lunch out of his pocket and laid them out on the ground. The tabby took the first bit between his teeth with an elegant little bite and permitted Anders to scratch his back and ears while he sniffed the rest.

“I should settle on a name for you,” Anders murmured, admiring the cat’s grey-and-black markings. He was a handsome creature, small and wiry, with a soft, silky coat. Anders wondered if he had always been a stray, or if he had found his way to the Circle after losing his human companion. He certainly seemed to accept Anders’ attention as his rightful due.

Then he heard a door slam in the room behind him. A light flickered on from inside, and two voices drew close.

“ … not tomorrow.”

“We have no choice.”

Anders froze, certain he was about to be yelled at for being outside and-or feeding stray animals. But when the conversation continued, he realized that the speakers had not seen him.

“Everything is in place,” the second voice continued. 

Anders shifted his weight ever so slightly, trying to move just enough to get out of the little patch of light that the window was casting on the ground outside. The dead, frozen grass crunched a bit beneath him; he cringed and froze.

_ Right. I’ll just stay crouched here.  _

The light abruptly dimmed as curtains were drawn over the inside window.

“They will still be in place in three days, or four. Why make things more challenging for ourselves?” the first voice argued. Anders recognized it right away.  _ The ever-inquisitive Marcus Amell. _

“Fiona is bound to grow impatient. When she realizes how little progress her protege has made, she may return to Orlais to await more significant news. If that happens, all of our planning will be for nothing.”

It took Anders a moment to recognize this second, older voice. When he did, he grimaced.  _ Uldred.  _ He felt as if he should have liked the man—he was outspoken and no fan of Templars—but something about the older mage gave Anders the creeps.

Marcus Amell evidently had no reply to that. After a short silence, Uldred spoke again. “We must move, Marcus. We may not get another opportunity.  _ We cannot wait. _ ”

Anders’s breath caught in his chest.

_ I know that voice. _

During his Harrowing, Anders had been confronted with a Pride demon. The demon had promised him enough power to break the Circles to his will and rub the Templars’ faces in the dirt of their own training yard. Anders had been briefly tempted, but the truth was that he wanted revenge much less than he wanted  _ out,  _ and he’d spent enough time in the Fade to know that being possessed by a demon was not the easy path to fame and fortune that they claimed. 

But he still heard that voice sometimes, still heard that echoing, metallic promise. “ _ We will crush the Circles underfoot, and the Templars will beg for our mercy. _ ”

The voice he’d just heard wasn’t exactly the same. It was still Uldred’s voice, mostly. But Anders could hear that echo, and he knew.  _ Uldred’s made a bargain with a demon. _

He made the decision before he even asked himself the question. Quietly, he shooed the cat back towards the bushes, hoping it would make an escape. Then, on silent feet, he made a dash for the shadowy edges of the Circle grounds.

He had plotted a good escape route within a week of arriving at the Denerim Circle. He had been too wary to use it until now, but whatever was going to happen tomorrow, he wasn’t going to be here for it.


	18. Chapter 18

Figuring out how to explain why she wanted to go to the bar where Zevran had met Jowan took some work. Juliet would obviously have to fill Naia and Varric in on the full story. She also thought she could trust Alistair with the bar’s true nature—he had obviously left the Templars because he could tell that the Circle system was bullshit.

But then there was Fenris. As much as she respected him, as much as she understood why he mistrusted magic and those who used it, she could not bring herself to tell him the location of an apostate bar. She knew what would happen—the next time he encountered a case involving apostates, he would be there asking questions or staking it out, and before you knew it a mage lifeline would be gone.

She turned several possible phrasings over in her head as they walked back to Tabris Investigations. Finally, she settled on one that she thought would work, but she waited until they were all halfway through their sandwiches—except for Alistair, who had wolfed his down in several large bites and finished well ahead of anyone else—before bringing it up.

“You know, Jowan might be a regular at that bar where he met Zevran. What if Naia and I stake it out?” she suggested.

 _I’m not lying,_ she told herself. _I’m omitting select facts._

_Quoting an assassin is probably a bad sign, isn’t it._

“He’d have to be pretty clueless to invite an assassin to a bar where people know him,” Varric pointed out.

“You would be surprised,” Zevran said. “It is not so unusual. Those who have no experience with a guild like the Crows tend to meet on familiar ground, places where they feel safe.”

“Do you think you could lead us back to the bar if we took you to the neighborhood?” Naia asked him.

“It is certainly possible, though I would not like to make any promises,” Zevran said nonchalantly. He slid a few pickles from his sandwich, an expression of distaste on his face. Juliet had to admire the effortless way he lied, even as it put her teeth on edge.

“I’m for it. We don’t have many other leads at this point.” Naia crunched down on a potato chip, swallowed, and continued. “We’ve got a lot of clues, but they all point in weird directions. You’d think that Alistair being a secret millionaire—”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Alistair protested mildly.

“—would be the obvious motive. But everything else we’ve found points to Circle mages being involved.” Naia’s mouth twisted in thought.

“Everything except Mr. Guerrin’s record at the Circle,” Fenris said. “Your former colleagues did not seem to think you would have attracted murderous grudges.”

“Really? Huh. Well, that’s pretty much the nicest thing a Templar’s ever said about me,” Alistair cracked.

“Max Trevelyan said you were skilled with the Templar arts.” Fenris arched an eyebrow at him. “I do not understand the source of your contempt for the Order. You could have done good work there.”

Alistair sighed. “Trust me, I did everyone a favor by walking out. The Templar skills stuff was just a freak accident. I certainly didn’t _work_ at it.”

A little spark of an idea began growing in the back of Juliet’s mind.

According to her father, one of the Circle’s stranger secrets was that many Templars were related to mages. Most people who noticed the pattern concluded that mages’ siblings and cousins joined the Order out of a sense of duty. But Malcolm Hawke suspected that the Templar arts were not entirely unrelated to magic—that they were used most effectively by people with a certain sensitivity to mana, a sensitivity that tended to run in families.

“Alistair? How much do you know about your mother?”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead. “My mother? Almost nothing, really. I know her name was Sara Cavell and that she worked for Eamon.” He wiped his hands on a napkin, then balled it up in his fist, his face drawn in thought. “I have a few photos of her. I used to stare at them to see if I looked anything like her. But I guess I take after Maric.”

“Could she have been an apostate?” Juliet suggested. “We’ve been assuming that Maric might be the reason people are targeting you. But what if this is about your mother?”

Alistair began to shake his head, but then paused. “Eamon never did like to talk about her,” he said slowly. “It was always the same speech about what a nice young woman she was and how proud she’d be of me.”

He sat back in his chair, his face stunned. “Maker. Something just occurred to me. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I can be sure that Sara Cavell _was_ my mother. For all I know she was just a convenient story.” He ran a hand over his face. “Pardon me while I question everything I thought I knew about myself. Andraste’s socks. _Was_ she my mother?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps we should put that question to Eamon.”

For a moment Juliet thought Alistair would say no—he seemed so rattled, and she knew things between him and Eamon were not easy—but then he pulled his shoulders back and looked Fenris square in the eye. “Good idea, Detective. Maybe between the two of us we can get a halfway decent answer out of him.”

“Great,” Juliet said—a bit too loudly, but she was more than a little relieved at how neatly this had worked out. “The rest of us will try our luck at Jowan’s bar.”

Across the table, Varric raised his eyebrow at her, but all he said was, “I’ll drive.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you really sure—and I mean, really, really, really really _really_ sure—you don’t want me to go in with you?” Naia asked, staring doubtfully at the door to the bar where Zevran had met Jowan.

Juliet couldn’t blame her. The bar was in the basement of a dilapidated row house. The stairs leading down to the door were half covered in ice, and curtains had been pulled over the single window facing the street. It didn’t look inviting, and that was before you noticed the four deadbolts and the rusted metal sentry window on the scarred wooden door. For a moment she wanted to say yes, but …

“If this is an apostate mage bar, I think I have to go in alone.” She glanced over at Zevran for confirmation.

The assassin nodded. “I fear so. Jowan had to show proof of his talents to gain us entry.” He made a vague gesture with his right hand, spreading his fingers wide. “Fire was involved. I was admitted with great reluctance, and only because Jowan told the doorman it was necessary.”

“So if Jowan could get Zevran in, you could get me in,” Naia argued.

“Jowan’s a regular here. I’m not.” Juliet took a deep breath through her nose. “This will be fine, Naia. It will go more easily if it’s just me. Just one mage, asking to be let into the secret apostate bar.”

“You’ve got sixty minutes before we break down the door, Hawke,” Varric warned her, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

Juliet smiled. “Good to hear.”

A blast of cold air met her as she pushed open the door to the car. Juliet zipped her jacket up as far as it would go as she crossed the street. Behind her, Varric put the car into motion, pulling further down the block to avoid being seen.

_I shouldn’t be this nervous._

Juliet knew a handful of other mages in Denerim, men and women like her who used a little magic while otherwise living out their lives the way any other Denerim citizen would. But she had avoided the local apostate scene as much as she could. It hadn’t seemed like a smart way for a Guardswoman to spend her free time. She’d cultivated a few more connections as a private investigator, but ironically, most of them had come through Naia and Varric. She was as much an outsider to the mage underground as it was possible for a mage to be—and she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of welcome she should expect at this nameless gathering place.

_Well, it’s not like I have a choice._

When she reached the door, it was locked—not a surprise. Juliet knocked firmly. Zevran had said that he and Jowan had met around this time, four o’clock in the afternoon, but this kind of place might keep irregular hours.

At first, no one answered the knock. Juliet was on the verge of leaving when the narrow metal window at the top of the door slid open. Two eyes peered out at her. “Password.”

Juliet pulled her hands out of her pockets and peeled the glove off her right hand. She glanced behind her as she raised it; when she was certain no one was close, she pushed a little magic through her fingers, warming it to create a flame.

The metal sentry window slammed shut. Four locks turned in quick succession, and then before she knew it, Juliet was inside.

The doorman, a plump, solid-looking man in his early fifties, narrowed his eyes as he took in her face. “Haven’t seen you before.”

“No, first time here,” Juliet agreed. “I heard this was the place to, um, meet people.”

The doorman chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you got that right.”

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Juliet was surprised to see that most of the seats in this dark, shabby bar were occupied. A mixture of humans and elves were seated in mismatched chairs at mismatched tables. A few were casting spells; the rest were merely talking. One man in the corner—a blonde with a half-ponytail—was enthusiastically hitting on a human woman with short brown hair, a beer in his hand. His companion seemed uninterested, and soon excused herself to join friends at the other side of the bar. The blonde man sighed in disappointment, but did not follow her.

Juliet made her way to the bartender, a curvy elven woman with wavy black hair and monolidded eyes. “Beer?” she asked.

The bartender nodded and set a bottle in front of Juliet. “Five,” she said shortly.

Juliet pulled some bills from her pocket and slid them across the bartop. She included a generous tip—she figured it couldn't hurt to buy a little goodwill.

_Should I ask about Jowan?_

_No. Wait a bit. I don’t want them to know I’m investigating just yet._

“You’re new here.”

Juliet turned her head to look at a little crowd—three human mages, all of them with unfriendly expressions.

She pretended not to notice. “I am. I’m Hawke.” She offered her hand to the woman who had spoken, an elegant blonde with dark brown eyes.

The woman did not accept it. She also didn’t introduce herself back. Behind her, the two male mages glowered silently, looking Juliet up and down, evaluating her as a threat.

“How did you find us?” the woman asked.

“A friend told me about this place,” Juliet lied.

“A friend told you,” the woman repeated flatly. She crossed her arms. “See, the problem with that story is that I recognize you, Guardswoman. I’m guessing you don’t have any friends in this bar. Except for the ones you’re planning to arrest.”

Juliet felt the trio beginning to gather their magic close. She held both hands up in a “calm down” posture. “Look, I’m not with the Guard any more. You can guess why.” She pulled on her magic once again; this time, lightning spread between her fingers. “I’m just here to find my friend. That’s all. His name is Jowan.” That was a risky claim, but she had to make it. Maybe a name they recognized would stop whatever this was before it turned ugly.

“Well. What’s going on over here?”

Juliet and her adversaries turned their heads simultaneously. The blonde man was weaving his way towards them, an empty bottle in one hand. “This looks exciting. Are you making new friends, Greta?”

“Hardly,” the woman spat, glaring at Juliet. “She says she knows Jowan. But she’s with the Guard.”

“Used to be. Used to be with the Guard,” Juliet corrected rapidly as the blonde man’s expression darkened.

“Jowan, huh? He’s a friend of mine too.” The blonde man gave her an easy grin. “Loud, obnoxious guy?”

Juliet pretended to wrinkle her brow in confusion. “Uh. No. Quiet guy. Sweet. Kind of hapless.”

The man chuckled. “Look at that. She passes.”

Greta scowled. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“Hey, I’m the one living on borrowed time. I say the pretty girl gets to stay.” He held out his hand to Juliet, palm up. “I’m Anders.”

Juliet extended her hand over his. A little trickle of magic rose from his palm, touching her fingers, inviting her to return the gesture. She pushed her own magic out to meet his and let them mingle. This was the mage’s version of a handshake—a small exchange of magic that could tell you a lot about how powerful another mage was, and how well-trained.

Anders’s magic was warm and golden, like afternoon sunshine, and carefully controlled. There was a sharpness to how he handled his magic that spoke of Circle training. It reminded her of her father. For the first time in months, a pang of homesickness stabbed through her.

She drew back her magic quickly, trying to conceal the emotions that the handshake had triggered. Fortunately, however, Anders looked as stunned as she felt. “Wow,” he said with a little shake of his head. “Greta, don’t pick fights with this one.” He looked back at Juliet. “What’s your name?”

“Hawke.”

“Well, Hawke. I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you already have one. So in that case, can I sit next to you while you drink it?”

“Be my guest.” She took another swig of her beer as Anders sat down. Greta and her friends slowly moved away, giving her suspicious glares as they did—but they didn’t seem inclined to push the point further. _Thank the Maker._

“So. Are you a Circle escapee, like me? Is that how you know Jowan?” Anders asked, signalling the bartender for another beer.

Juliet shook her head. “No. Lifelong apostate here.”

Anders’s eyebrows shot up his head. “Who trained you?”

“My father. He was in a Circle.” Malcolm Hawke had left and surrendered his license when he married Leandra Amell. But he had never stopped practicing magic—and Juliet knew that he had been more delighted than afraid when his oldest daughter showed her gift.

“Lucky,” Anders sighed, shaking his head. “Most apostates don’t have someone able to train them.”

“You’re a Circle mage?” Juliet asked.

“Was.” He grinned at her. “I am currently outside Circle grounds without permission. I’ve escaped before, but that was at my old Circle. This is my first time in Denerim.”

“How long ago did you leave?”

Anders glanced at the clock. “Uh. About two hours.”

Juliet raised her eyebrows. “You found the local apostate bar in two hours?” _Damn. Maybe we should hire him at Tabris Investigations._

But Anders shook his head. “Nah. Every mage in the Circle knows about this place. We all know where to head for a change of clothes and a place to sleep if we ever escape.”

For the first time, Juliet took a closer look at what he was wearing. His clothing was rumpled and wasn’t quite the right size—the long-sleeved black t-shirt was a bit too small, the jeans a bit too big. But the fit was close enough not to draw notice. This nameless bar was apparently more important than she had thought, if they kept clothing on hand for escaped Enchanters who needed to shed their blue suits.

“Normally I’d have moved on by now, since I didn’t manage to smash my phylactery before I went,” Anders continued. “But something weird is happening at the Denerim Circle. I’m hoping they’ll be too distracted to find me.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “You wouldn’t rat me out, would you, Guardswoman?”

Juliet shook her head. “Ex-Guardswoman. Your life, your business. I just need to talk to Jowan.”

“Jowan again! I’m starting to feel a little inadequate,” Anders joked. “ _What_ is so interesting about Jowan?”

Juliet decided to take a chance. Maybe Anders, another Circle escapee, would help her if she played this right. “I need to warn him about something.” She met Anders’s eyes steadily, trying to look trustworthy. “His name turned up in a Guard investigation. The Templars know he’s still in Denerim.”

Anders dropped his forehead into the palm of his hand with a loud groan. “Jowan, you idiot,” he sighed through gritted teeth. “He’s crashing in one of the rooms upstairs. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

*

Anders led Juliet past the bar’s small bathroom and up a narrow, dark staircase. They climbed past the first floor and stopped at the second. The landing was windowless and dark, its wooden floors scarred and worn, but it seemed reasonably clean and the green-and-white flowered wallpaper made an effort at cheerfulness. Juliet could see three doors ringing the hallway.

“Let me handle this,” Anders whispered. “Jowan’s jumpy, or he was when I knew him. If he hears a stranger’s voice he might actually try climbing out the window.”

Juliet nodded reluctantly. She didn’t love handing over control of the situation, but she suspected Anders was right.

Anders walked to the one on the left and knocked gently. “Jowan? Hey, Jowan. It’s Anders.”

A silence followed. Then, a rustling sound, and the creak of feet on old floorboards. “You need something else?” a quiet tenor asked through the door. “I thought you were headed out.”

“I stayed for a drink.” Anders chuckled. “OK, a few drinks. But it’s a good thing I did. I, uh, have some news you’re not going to like. Can you open the door, please? I need you to meet someone.”

A longer pause. “I don’t want to see him.”

Juliet could guess who the _him_ was. At least he was smart enough to know that Zevran might come looking for him again. “That’s not who I am,” she said, trying to sound friendly.

Anders glared indignantly at her, but fortunately, a moment later Jowan opened the door.

He looked exactly like his sketch—a bit more tired, a bit more anxious, but Zevran had remembered his features well. He was an average-sized man with pale skin, dark hair, and narrow features; his eyebrows were drawn anxiously together, an expression that Juliet suspected was more or less permanent these days.

Jowan looked at her with a mix of suspicion and worry. “Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator. But I’m not here to make things difficult for you—I just need some help. OK?”

Jowan went pale. “Uh. Uh. OK?”

Juliet nodded. “OK. I was hired to find out why someone tried to put out a hit on Alistair Guerrin, the Councilman’s adopted son.”

Jowan went absolutely white. “I can’t help you with that,” he mumbled, so quickly Juliet almost didn’t understand him.

He moved to close the door, but Juliet put her palm on its surface and pushed back. With her free hand, she summoned a soft little pulse of magic—a faint, friendly light that danced above her fingers until she drew it back in.

“I’m really not here to cause you problems,” she told him. “In fact, I’m here to help. And I think you could probably use some help. Why were you the one who met with the Antivan Crows?”

Jowan shook his head, but he didn’t try to close the door again. Juliet decided to start guessing. “I think maybe someone told you that you had to meet with Zevran, or someone would tell the Templars where you were—and sell out the location of this place in the bargain. Who was it?”

Jowan paused. His expression was so miserable that Juliet almost felt guilty for pressing him—but she had to know who was after Alistair, and she didn’t think keeping his blackmailer’s secret would actually help Jowan in the long run.

“The Templars know you’re still in the city, Jowan,” she said, as gently as she could. “Whoever pressured you can’t help you. But I can. I’ll give you the money for a bus ticket out of here.” She silently apologized to Alistair, who would be seeing that bus ticket money on his bill under “Miscellaneous Expenses.”

“Just tell me what I need to know to help my client.”

The apostate’s face fell as he processed her words. He swallowed and his shoulders slumped. “Uldred. It was Uldred.”

At Juliet’s side, Anders let out a low whistle. “I wish I could say I was surprised.”

Jowan shook his head. “Uldred said if I met with the assassin, he wouldn’t tell the Templars where to find me. I haven’t been able to find much in the way of a job. I can’t—I didn’t want to have to leave here.”

“Who’s Uldred?” Juliet asked.

Jowan looked surprised. “You’re not—you weren’t in a Circle?”

Juliet shook her head.

Jowan sighed. “Lucky.”

“Uldred’s a Senior Enchanter. He’s at the Denerim office,” Anders explained. “He’s—passionate. Speaks out a lot about loosening the restrictions on Circle mages.” He grimaced. “Remember that weird stuff I mentioned? He’s at the center of it.”

“He was sort of my mentor back when I was still at the Circle. I always thought he was good for us, until I got that phone call.” Jowan sighed. “Maybe—maybe he’s just trying to …”

“Trying to get a perfectly nice man killed?” Juliet said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “Jowan, don’t let him fool you. Uldred’s clearly not on your side.”

Jowan shrugged. “He’s as much on my side as anyone’s ever been, I think.”

Juliet tried to think of something comforting to say, and failed. “He’s wrong to blackmail you,” she said instead.

“Maybe he thinks he doesn’t have a choice,” Jowan said. He and Anders exchanged a meaningful glance. “I know the feeling.”

 

* * *

 

_What am I doing here?_

It had been such a neat plan. Kill Alistair Guerrin, be killed in turn by his client, and earn a kinder fate than the one he almost certainly deserved. He should have been dead by now, or on his way to it. Instead, Zevran was sitting in the backseat of a messy four-door sedan, listening to Varric and Naia argue idly about the music.

“My car radio is not a karaoke machine, Sparks.”

“Anything’s a karaoke machine if you sing along with it, Varric.”

It felt ordinary. It felt safe. It felt like he was betraying Rinna.

As if sensing his dark mood, Naia glanced into the rearview mirror. “You OK back there?”

Zevran met Naia’s gaze with a grin, concealing his unease as quickly as possible. “Tell me, why does the dwarf here call you Sparks? Because of your sparkling eyes, I assume?”

“Nope.” Naia shook her head. “Because bypassing the keypad on an electronic safe makes the wires spark.”

That was not at all the answer Zevran had expected. Varric noticed his surprise and interest. “We met trying to steal something from a corrupt Merchant’s Guild member.”

Naia made a little scoffing noise of protest. “ _I_ was trying to steal something. _You_ were swearing at the various dwarven relics he kept on his shelves.”

Varric smiled fondly. “Ah, right. Good times.” He looked into the rearview mirror; when he saw that Zevran was still paying attention, he continued. “So there I am, at the world’s most boring dinner party after the worst week of my entire life. I’m sitting across the table from the host, who just happens to be undercutting my family’s businesses by giving kickbacks to all the right criminals in the city government. But I can’t prove it, and he’s Important Dwarven People, so I have to play nice.”

“Which means glaring daggers at this guy while drinking the most expensive whiskey in his bar,” Naia added.

“Hey, who’s telling this story?” Varric asked reproachfully. “Anyway. I get up to use the bathroom, and on the way back I see the door to his office. I push it, it’s unlocked. It’s lined with all of these respectable dwarven relics handed down in his family. Because I’ve had a fair amount of that expensive whiskey, and because my very bad week involved a lot of talk about the proper dwarven way to do things, I get the urge to give those relics a piece of my mind. So I rant for five minutes straight about how this guy is a thief and a liar and still can’t shut up about his damn dwarven honor.”

He started laughing. “ _Then_ I notice that there’s this elf in the corner, standing very still in front of his safe. She’s got the panel pried open and one wire in each hand. Turns out she’s there to get payback for some crappy work he did fixing power lines in the alienage.”

“Varric convinced me that instead of robbing the guy blind, I could get him arrested, which would be much more upsetting in the long run.” Naia shook her head. “I still can’t believe you talked me into leaving all of those shiny objects behind.”

Varric shrugged. “What can I say, I’m persuasive. Long story short, she opens the safe, I get the documents I need, our guy gets hauled off to prison and takes a few corrupt assholes down with him, and Naia and I have been friends ever since.”

Zevran would not have guessed that the elven investigator had a criminal past. But it did fit with his sense of Naia’s personality, now that he thought about it. _This one likes risks._

“And the impressive Ms. Hawke? When did she join your little band?”

“About three years ago. I needed someone with Guard connections. Varric found out a former Guardswoman was looking for a gig, and he’d heard good things about Hawke.” Naia’s mouth curved in a little half-smile. “Turns out the stories weren’t exaggerated.”

“Did you always know she was a mage?” Zevran asked curiously.

Naia and Varric exchanged a glance. “More or less,” the elf replied.

Zevran sensed a story there as well, but before he could ask about it, footsteps approached the car. Hawke was walking rapidly towards them, her face serious. Varric unlocked the door and the mage slid into the backseat with a _thump._

“Our guy’s name is Uldred. He’s a Senior Enchanter at the Denerim Circle,” she said without preamble. She glanced over at Zevran. “Looks like good news for that new identity you wanted.”

Zevran smiled and tried to look pleased. In truth, he was torn between a desperate wish to take that new identity and run as far and fast as he could, and the knowledge that he did not deserve that chance.

_Once again I fail you, Rinna._


	19. Chapter 19

“Will you stop that?”

Alistair jumped, startled. “Stop what?”

Detective Leto’s green eyes narrowed as they settled on his hand. Alistair looked down to see that he was clutching a blue retractable pen, his thumb on the button.

“Oh. Right. The clicky thing. Sorry.” He reached out to return the pen to Eamon’s desk. But of course, the tip hit the side of the wooden cup Eamon used for his pens and pencils, scattering every writing implement in Eamon’s office across the desk and onto the floor.

Alistair tried not to die of mortification. He was rather proud that he succeeded.

“Sorry,” he repeated sheepishly as he knelt, chasing the pens as they rolled. “I just. Um.”

To his surprise, the Detective finished his thought. “It must be unnerving, the possibility that your mother was not who you thought she was.”

“That’s one word for it,” Alistair agreed. “ _ Baffling’ _ s another.  _ Infuriating  _ also comes to mind.”

Oh, of course, he knew that he should wait for Eamon’s side of the story. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. But something in his gut told him that he was right.

Alistair had barely managed to return the pens to the desk when Eamon pushed the door open, looking more than a little harried, and more than a little annoyed. “Detective,” he said shortly. “I hope we can make this quick. Dora said you …” 

He trailed off when he saw that the Detective had company. “Alistair? Maker. Is everything all right?”

Alistair met Eamon’s eyes. The familiar, gentle concern in them almost killed his question dead. As it was, he had to swallow twice before he could speak. “Eamon. I need to know something. Was my mother a mage?”

Eamon’s eyes widened. “Who put that idea in your head?” Then his eyes found  Detective Leto. “Ah, of course. Is this what you have to show for all your days of investigation, Detective? A wild theory about something that happened over twenty years ago?”

“The evidence consistently points to a connection with Denerim’s mages,” the Detective replied evenly—though Alistair saw his hands and shoulders tense at Eamon’s tone.

“Alistair was nearly a Templar, Detective.” Eamon’s tone was as pompous and dismissive as Alistair had ever heard it. He crossed the room and looked at the Detective with something like disappointment as he took the seat behind his desk. “Surely that connection is the first place you should look.”

“I  _ did, _ ” the elf ground out.

“Stop it, Eamon,” Alistair snapped.

Eamon blinked and turned towards him. Alistair forced himself to stare into Eamon’s eyes, to hold his gaze.  _ If you’re going to lie, you’ll have to do it to my face.  _ “If you’re going to be all snotty and, uh, Councilman-y, do it to me. It’s my theory. Well, Hawke’s first, then mine too.” He remembered then that Eamon had no idea who Hawke was. He continued anyway. “If I’m crazy, look me in the eye and tell me so. If I’m not, tell me the truth.”

Eamon seemed to be wavering. Alistair took a deep breath. “Eamon, this—this information, these secrets. They’re  _ mine,  _ or they should be. They’re my, I don’t know, my heritage? Andraste’s knickers, Maric’s been dead for years. If I’ve proven anything in that time it’s that I can keep my mouth shut.”

For an agonizing minute, Eamon looked stared at him, his brown eyes guilty and slightly sad. Then he drew a deep breath, his chest rising and falling visibly. “Maker, Alistair. Are you—” He looked to Detective Leto. “Are you both certain that the attempts on Alistair’s life lead back to mages?”

The Detective crossed his arms. “Absolutely certain.”

Eamon ran a weathered hand over his face. “I—you must understand, I promised your father that you would never have to know this.”

Alistair wanted to scream. “Just spit it out, Eamon. What’s so wrong? Was she an apostate? A blood mage? Someone who collected small ceramic cats?”

The inappropriate joke seemed to bring Eamon back to the present; he let out a familiar, weary sigh. “No, none of that. But—yes. She was a mage.”

Alistair’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “Was she really Sara Cavell?”

Eamon closed his eyes. “No. Andraste forgive me. Poor Sara died in childbirth, her babe along with her, and I … it seemed the easiest way for everyone.”

_ Except me,  _ a bitter little voice whispered in Alistair’s mind.

“Who was she, then?” the Detective asked. Alistair found himself grateful for the interruption. His head was spinning and he wasn’t sure if he could keep being polite about all of this.

Eamon took an unsteady breath. “Fiona. Her name was Fiona. She has, from what I understand, risen quite high in the Circle.”

“Fiona—wait. Wait, wait, wait.  _ Grand Enchanter Fiona  _ is my  _ mother _ ?” Alistair spluttered. He had never met the woman, but every Templar trainee knew had an opinion about her pointed stance on mages’ rights. The idea that he was related to her—well, that was going to take some getting used to. “How in the Maker’s name did Maric meet  _ Fiona _ ?”

Eamon sat back in his chair, clearly trying to think of how best to begin. “I know only the outlines of the story,” he warned. “About a year after Maric was elected to the Council, a black ops group called the Grey Wardens approached him about something—they were trying to track down an apostate mage named Remille, a dangerous fellow. Fiona was one of that team.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. He’d heard of the Grey Wardens, but he had assumed they were mostly imaginary—the kind of thing that made for good movies and Varric Tethras novels, not a real organization that his bloody  _ mother  _ might have belonged to.

Eamon did not appear to notice his surprise. He seemed lost in thought, lost in his story. “Rowan was dying, and things were … rather hard.” His voice cracked; belatedly, Alistair remembered that Rowan had been Eamon’s sister. “Maric was desperate for a distraction, and so when the Wardens approached him, he agreed to help them with what turned out to be a very dangerous investigation. Nine months after they left Denerim, he handed me a baby. You.” Eamon smiled sadly. “He mentioned Fiona often after the investigation ended—but never again after you arrived. It was not hard to fill in the blanks.”

“I can’t believe him!” Alistair burst out. “‘Sorry about your sister, Eamon. By the way, here’s my bastard. Here’s some advice, don’t count back from his birthday.’”

“Maric loved Rowan,” Eamon said sharply. “But in the last days she barely knew who he was—who any of us were. I do not judge him, and neither should you.”

Alistair wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with that. At his side, Detective Leto also seemed unimpressed. He arched one silver eyebrow with detached curiosity. “But why, then, should you have been the one to take responsibility for Alistair?”

Eamon sighed. “I did not want to see Maric’s political career destroyed by the inevitable rumors. And Cailan was so young. It … simply seemed best, I suppose.”

Alistair felt his eyebrows draw together as some pieces fell into place for him. He had known Eamon and Maric were close, but he had not realized the full strength of Eamon’s hero-worship until now.  _ He would have done anything to protect Maric.  _

Suddenly he was desperate to get out of this conversation, to begin processing what he had learned, to try and figure out what it all  _ meant. _ “Thank you, Eamon,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.” 

He glanced over at Detective Leto. “Should we—I guess we should go call her. Fiona.”

The Detective nodded and stood, his movement fluid. But as he stepped out of the chair, he met Eamon’s eyes. “Councilman Guerrin. Our investigation might have proceeded much more quickly had you answered my questions honestly at our first interview. ”

Eamon’s mouth tightened. “Should I call my lawyer, Detective?”

“It might be wise,” the Detective replied blandly. Eamon flinched.

“I cannot say whether my Guard-Captain will advise pursuing charges,” the Detective continued. “But the assassin made another attempt on Alistair’s life, and I believe it could have been avoided. Next time, I hope you will protect the living, rather than the dead.”

Eamon’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. But his expression shifted to something more like guilt when he met Alistair’s gaze. Alistair almost opened his mouth to say something nice, something comforting, but he just nodded instead. Maybe he was being selfish—hard not to be when his own life was at stake—but he couldn’t help thinking that Detective Leto was pretty much right.

 

* * *

 

Fenris decided to take Alistair back to Tabris Investigations to discuss how to proceed with the case. The investigators’ offices would be more private than his desk at the Guard house—but he also suspected that Alistair would welcome a few friendly faces. The younger man was uncharacteristically quiet as they left the Council building, and did not crack a single joke during the drive back to the Tabris offices.

As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, Fenris heard Alistair clear his throat. “Hey. Thanks. I don’t think Eamon would have told me everything without you there.”

“It was no more than my job,” Fenris replied stiffly, uncomfortable with the gratitude. But he could hear how unfriendly he sounded—and members of the Guard received such thanks all too rarely. His voice softened as he said, “You are welcome.”

Hawke, Naia, Varric, and the assassin were sitting around Varric’s desk playing a card game when Fenris and Alistair pushed open the door. “I’ve got to give you credit, Slick,” Varric said, sliding a few stones into the ante pile. “It’s been a while since anyone actually stole a card off me in Wicked Grace. Sparks here is the only person who’s managed it in recent memory.”

“I am flattered. You are most deft yourself,” Zevran said. “Three embrium.”

“Hmmm. Three swords.”

Naia opened her mouth to bid, but put her cards face-down as soon as she saw Fenris and Alistair. “You’re back!”

“We’ve got a lot to tell you,” Hawke said, dropping her cards.

“I think I may have you beat. My mother? Was not Sara Cavell. She’s the Grand bloody Enchanter of all the Circles in Thedas. Fiona.” Alistair’s gaze then moved to Zevran; he winced.

“Have no fear, Mr. Guerrin. I can keep your secret.” Zevran smiled. “Indeed, now that I know a Grand Enchanter is involved, I find myself rather relieved by my failure. How marvelous.”

“I’m so glad I could put your mind at ease,” Alistair said flatly. “What about you all? Did you find Jowan?”

“We did,” Naia said. “Or rather, Hawke did.”

“A man named Uldred told Jowan to meet Zevran. Uldred’s a Senior Enchanter at the Denerim Circle.” Hawke ran a hand through her hair. “This is starting to make sense. Uldred must have wanted to get at Fiona through Alistair. I heard he’s at the center of something weird at the Circle. Maybe he’s got his eye on her job.” 

Fenris nodded. “A most plausible theory. Rivalries between magisters often turn personal.”

“They’re not magisters, Fenris,” Hawke said immediately, her jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line. “They’re Circle mages. They can’t own property and even Fiona can’t leave her Circle’s grounds without Templar permission.”

“Mages, then,” Fenris collected begrudgingly, though he thought his point still stood. “But this puts us in a rather odd place. Only the Templars have the right to question or discipline a mage of the Circle.” He chuckled, then sighed. “It appears Agent Trevelyan will have his wish after all. This will have to become a Templar case.”

“But at least we know what’s going on. Or most of it,” Naia pointed out optimistically. “And once we turn over what we’ve got, Alistair won’t have to worry about Uldred again.”

“We should call Fiona.”

All eyes in the room turned to Alistair. He shifted his feet, uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but continued. “Uldred was willing to have me killed to—what, to get her job? Whatever he wants, he’s serious about it. We need to warn her. And it could take a while for that information to trickle down through Templar channels.” He squared his shoulders. “I want to call her. Can we do that?”

Hawke raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “It might take a while.” She looked up at Fenris. “But I think a celebrated Detective from the Denerim Guard might just be able to get through.”

*

It took several rounds of wrong calls and false starts. Fiona, it turned out, was not at her usual office in Montsimmard. The Orlesian administrator who took Fenris’s call was less than helpful and transferred him after ten very tedious minutes. Fortunately, the second Templar introduced himself as Agent Alex Trevelyan—and he was more than happy to do a favor for someone who knew “my favorite cousin.” Moments later, they were on the phone to Denerim, and Fenris was reciting his badge number to a new assistant, a distracted-sounding woman named Emili.

“Do you think she came here because of me?” Alistair asked as Fenris waited on hold. He bit on a hangnail, then pulled his hand down with an annoyed frown, as if he’d gone back to a bad habit he thought he’d lost.

Naia winced a bit. “Hard to say. But—yeah, her being in town seems like a pretty big coincidence.”

Fenris opened his mouth to agree—but then the crackle of the hold lifted.

“Hello,” said a female voice, laced with an Orlesian accent. “This is Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was self-assured and used to command. Instinctively, Fenris’s back stiffened. That tone from mages had meant nothing good for him in the past. But he forced himself to swallow his instinctive fear. “Grand Enchanter. My name is Detective Fenris Leto. I am calling with, ah, a rather sensitive inquiry.” He looked over at Alistair. “I have been investigating an attempt on the life of Alistair Guerrin. I—we have reason to believe that you may be in some danger.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. “Is he there?” Fiona asked finally, in a very different tone. “Alistair. Is he with you?”

“He is,” Fenris assured her gravely. “Would you prefer to speak with him?”

Alistair’s face blanched and he shook his head frantically—just as Fiona said, “I—yes. I would.”

Unsure of what to do, Fenris held out the phone to Alistair, his eyebrows raised. With a reluctant, nervous swallow, Alistair accepted it. “Hello? Hi. Um. This is Alistair Guerrin. I—hi?”

Fenris could only hear a slight murmur on the other end of the line, but whatever Fiona said seemed to calm Alistair a bit. Perhaps it was enough for him to realize that his mythical mother was a flesh-and-blood woman who was as nervous as he.

It was Naia who jerked her chin towards the door and began walking out. Though Fenris was almost bitterly curious, he followed her lead. Some things, after all, were best left private.

*

For a minute or so they just—sat. Or stood. Alistair was standing; he wasn’t sure about Fiona. 

Finally Alistair couldn’t stand the silence any more. “I. Uh. Eamon wasn’t entirely clear on things. But he said—he said he thought—that you and Maric knew each other?”

Somehow, that unbelievably awkward sentence broke the ice. Fiona laughed, soft and warm and sad all at once. “Yes. Very well. I knew Maric very well, for a time.”

Alistair licked his lips nervously. “A time right around nine months before I was born?”

A pause. “Yes. Just so.”

“Maker,” Alistair said quietly. “I thought—they told me someone else was my mother. She’s been dead all my life. I never thought …”

“Nor I,” Fiona said quietly, when it became clear that Alistair had no end for that sentence. “A mage’s child is, legally, a ward of the Circle. I hope—I hope you can understand why I sought Maric’s protection, and why I …” Her voice cracked. “Perhaps I could have done more.”

Alistair did not know how to answer that. “Eamon was a good guardian,” he said. He wasn’t sure if that was a lie—Eamon might have sent him away, but his father’s friend had made sure he was cared for, and hadn’t been cruel, and he was very aware that his life could have been far worse. “I—listen, Fiona. Grand Enchanter. I didn’t call to make you talk about … things. Or to make you feel guilty. I just, um—someone’s been trying to kill me.” 

_ Jumped right past sugarcoating that one, didn’t we, _ he thought. 

“It turns out Senior Enchanter Uldred is involved, and we’ve heard he’s up to something at the Denerim Circle. I think—I think he might be after you. Or maybe I was a much more obnoxious potential Templar than I realized,” he joked.

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “I should have suspected,” Fiona said, her voice clipped. “I have been receiving threats—demands that I resign my position or face harm to those I care about. Uldred has always been ambitious, but blackmail? Murder? I never suspected.” Alistair could hear her breath quicken; when she spoke again, her voice shook with rage. “He will pay for this in full. Mark my words.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said, though he wasn’t sure for what. “I never thought I would get a chance to talk to my mother. If I’d thought about what that might be like, telling her that someone she works with might be trying to kill me wouldn’t have been how I pictured it.”

For a moment he wondered if Fiona would be the latest in a long line of people who didn’t like his sense of humor, but after a beat, she chuckled. “And having my son find me because someone is trying to kill him would not have been my choice, either. And yet … I find myself oddly grateful to Uldred. Though not,” she clarified, the steely note back in her voice, “so grateful that I will spare him.”

She took a deep breath. “Alistair. Can you—will you come to meet me tomorrow? I will have to go back to Montsimmard once this is settled, but I find—I would like very much to meet you face to face.”

Alistair didn’t even have to think about his answer. “Of course. What time?”

*

Fenris was contemplating whether or not he should leave when Alistair walked out of Naia’s office, his face stunned.

“So. Um. I’m going to see her tomorrow. I told her to watch out for Uldred, that we heard something weird was going on. She didn’t seem too worried about him, though.” He ran a hand over his face, and even from a distance, Fenris could see a slight tremble to it. 

“I will go with you to the Circle,” he offered. “I will have to meet with the Templars to share what we’ve learned and hand over our case files.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said sincerely. He tightened both of his hands into his hair, lacing his fingers behind the back of his head. “I’m going to meet my mother. Maker’s breath, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d get to say. I don’t know whether to be happy or to vomit.”

Varric winced. “Drink?”

“Yes. Please. More than one.” Alistair collapsed into one of the room’s armchairs and groaned. “As a bartender I should know better than to try to drink away my problems. But what the hell, I’ll give it a shot.”

Hawke went directly to her office and pulled a bottle from her bottom desk drawer. Naia produced a box of glasses from the coat closet, and Varric brought out two more from some secret hiding space in his office. This was, Fenris could tell, a practiced ritual for the three of them.

“Here. You’ve earned it after today,” Hawke said, pouring her whiskey into one of the glasses Naia was holding and handing it immediately to Alistair.

“Well, it hasn’t been as eventful as the days someone tried to kill me—” Alistair paused to glare pointedly at Zevran—“but it wasn’t exactly boring either. Maker, I’m looking forward to some boring days.”

“Varric? Fenris? Zevran? Anything for you?” Hawke asked, pouring two more glasses that were clearly intended for her and Naia.

“Sure. I can still beat Slick with a drink in my hand,” Varric said agreeably.

“Your Ferelden whiskey gives me a headache,” sighed Zevran. “But I suppose the alternative is to stay sober.”

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, holding the bottle up just a shade higher. “It might not be quite up to your standards, but it’s not half bad.”

Fenris hesitated for a long moment. He and Hawke had often shared a drink after a successful investigation. Those had been some of the best nights from his early day in the Guard—just him and Hawke, sitting at a table, sharing quiet satisfaction in a job well done. It felt odd to see her perform that ritual with another group of friends and colleagues, and he found himself torn between jealousy and self-recrimination. He had no one to blame but himself for the loss of those comfortable nights. 

_ I should go. _

But suddenly Naia was at his side, handing him a glass. “Here, Fenris. It won't kill you. Might take the enamel off your teeth, though.”

Fenris took the drink instinctively. He turned his head and met Hawke’s eyes, arching his eyebrow skeptically as he glanced down at the whiskey. She chuckled in amusement, her smile warm.

Maker, but he had missed that grin. 

Naia turned to the room and held her whiskey high. “A toast. To something.”

“To the end of long days?” Alistair suggested. His face twisted in dissatisfaction. “How about to finding out that everyone has always been lying to you about everything?”

“I can drink to that,” Zevran said. “Though I am surprised you are only now realizing that the world is filled with lies.”

“And so it is,” Fenris murmured, nodding to the assassin with something almost like respect.

“Wow, that’s cheery. Thanks, you two.” Varric turned to Alistair and lifted his glass. “You’re gonna be OK, kid. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but you will.”

Alistair shrugged and downed his whiskey in one gulp. “I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtle-ish shout-out to IntrovertedWife's "Guarded Love" here :)

As soon as she hung up the phone, Fiona let her emotions free. Magic flared from her clenched hands, creating sparks of lightning and small flares of fire all at once.

With difficulty, she pulled the magic back into her. She had needed to relieve her feelings, but Maker, Uldred would pay for this, for meddling in her life, for threatening Alistair’s when he had done nothing to deserve it. She could guess what her fellow mage wanted—an empty Grand Enchanter’s seat, and the chance to move into it himself. _A stupid plan._ Uldred might be a significant man in Denerim, but he had never been outside of Ferelden, had never been obligated to play politics with people like Vivienne de Fer. He would not find that promotion as easy to grab as he seemed to think.

A thousand plans launched in her mind, a thousand potential ways to take Uldred’s career down in flames. She even found brief satisfaction in the image of him with a brand on his forehead—but she found that she could not wish that fate even on Uldred.

Not, of course, that his fate would be up to her in the end.

She checked the buttons on her Enchanter’s jacket, smoothed her hair, and rose from her desk to find Greagoir. But she had not even placed her hand on the doorknob when a sharp knock interrupted her steps.

“Who is there?” she called.

When the door opened without her permission, she knew it must be a Templar. And indeed, a young man barely out of the Academy stepped into her room, his silver suit gleaming in the last light of the day.

“I am very sorry, Grand Enchanter. But I am here to tell you that the Circle has been locked down. A mage has left the grounds without permission.”

Fiona wanted to laugh, or scream. Instead, she merely nodded, keeping her feelings in as best she could. “I see. Very well, then. Could you ask the Knight-Commander to see me at his earliest possible convenience?”

She knew that would likely not be for several hours yet—she might even have to wait until morning. But at least she had the comfort of knowing that Uldred, too, would be trapped in his chambers for the time being.

And Maker willing, tomorrow, she could still see Alistair.

*

“You really didn’t know anything about what happened to Jowan, did you?” Max asked as they walked towards the door of the Circle.

Mei cinched her scarf tighter. Even though they would not be outside much longer, she was tempted to cast a fire spell to warm the air around them—it was another bitterly cold day. It had also been a frustrating one. So far, Denerim’s apostate scene had been difficult to penetrate, even with Detective Leto’s information added to their own—and all of the groups they had investigated seemed to lack the organization and the ambition to threaten someone like Fiona.

 _Nothing. We have nothing._ And now Max Trevelyan wanted to bring up Jowan again.

“I heard the official story—that he had escaped and was now a wanted apostate,” she told him. “But the blood magic, the Templar lover, Tranquility—no.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “Maker. How could you not have known? I know you weren’t here when it happen but I figured the gossip would be all over the Circle.”

Mei snorted. “Between the Templars, maybe. But no one tells the mages anything.”

 _Not even Cullen,_ a little nagging voice whispered. She had never thought to ask her lover if there was more to Jowan’s story. But he had not volunteered that information, either, and he knew that they had been friends. She suspected he had wanted to spare her ugly details—but no. Ignorance was no kindness.

Max blinked at her. “Are things really that bad between Templars and mages? I know it’s awkward, but I thought—”

And finally, after many long years, Mei Surana snapped.

“You thought what, Max?” she snarled, rounding on him so quickly that he actually stepped back in surprise. “You thought we were colleagues? Friends? The Templars exist specifically to kill us or brand us if we put a foot out of line.”

“That’s not—Templars protect mages!” Max protested.

“Name one time you’ve protected a mage from someone who was trying to hurt them. One,” Mei challenged.

Max’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I … not protect like that. But we can be there to deal with abominations and blood magic.”

“Do you know who else would be very well qualified to fight blood magic, Max?” Mei spat. She pointed an emphatic finger at her chest. “Me. Me, and thousands of other mages like me. But instead we count it a kindness if we’re let out of our cages once a year to put our skills to use.”

“Cages?” Max protested. “You live in the same rooms we do!”

“But you can leave the grounds at any time. I can’t set foot outside the Circle unless I’m on an assignment. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

She shook her head at his baffled expression. “Maker. Why am I even bothering. Forget it.”

“Uh. OK,” Max said hesitantly.

Then, a few steps later, he stopped. “Wait. No. No, I’m not going to forget it. We do good work, Enchanter. I’m proud of what I do. Without the Templars every country in Thedas would be another Tevinter Imperium.”

It was the same thing Cullen might have said.

Mei sighed. “I’m not saying there’s no place for an organization that can check the abuses of magic, Agent Trevelyan. I’m saying that the way we do things now turns mages into prisoners—especially the ones given to a Circle as children, who are never taught anything besides how to use magic. We don’t like being prisoners. I’m sorry if that shocks you. But it really shouldn’t.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. She didn’t even have to will herself to be calm and steady. Those words had been sitting within her for a long, long time, and finally saying them spread relief through every cell in her body. Max, however, was clearly disquieted. He kept opening his mouth and then closing it, trying to think of a response.

“Can we go inside?” she asked brusquely. “It’s been a long day.”

Max just looked at her for a moment, a dozen different emotions on his handsome face. Then he nodded and resumed their walk, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. With a quiet release of breath, Mei fell into step beside him.

The sense of release Mei felt didn’t last long. The first thing she saw when Max pushed the door to the Circle open was Cullen, standing in the entryway with his arms crossed and worry in his golden eyes. His gaze flickered to Mei—but only for a moment before he locked eyes with Max.

“Thank the Maker you’re both back,” he said. “We’re in lockdown.”

Max’s eyebrows rose. “Shit. What happened?”

“Anders escaped,” Cullen sighed.

Mei was genuinely shocked. Anders had seemed sincere when he talked about wanting to avoid Tranquility. She herself would never have risked that fate. But she could certainly understand feeling like you couldn’t stand one more second in this place.

“We need to make certain everyone else is accounted for,” Cullen said. “Particularly the students. Max, they’ll want you to report and help search. Enchanter Surana, my apologies, but—”

“I know,” Mei said, so that he wouldn’t have to. _When a lockdown is initiated, mages must return to their rooms until the lockdown is lifted._ She gave them both a little nod. “I’ll be in my room, then.”

Cullen returned the nod and moved to bar the front doors. But to Mei’s surprise, Max met her eyes with guilt etched on every line of his face.

“We’ll resume our work as soon as we can, Enchanter,” he said, his voice a bit strained. “I’ll talk to Greagoir about it. We’ll be back in the field by tomorrow.”

Mei doubted that would have much effect—the lockdown would be lifted when Greagoir was satisfied, and no earlier—but to her surprise, she found that she appreciated the thought. “Until tomorrow, then, Agent Trevelyan.”

 

* * *

 

Juliet, Naia, Varric, Fenris, Alistair, and Zevran ended up ordering pizza and playing cards for a few more hours. It was a strange group, to say the least, but it was also … weirdly nice.

After a few hands, Juliet realized that the reason it felt _nice_ was because Fenris was there, joking with Naia, deflecting Varric’s quips, holding his own with Zevran’s flirtations and being surprisingly kind to Alistair. And with every smile, every chuckle, she could feel new life breathed back into that old crush.

 _Knock it off, Hawke,_ she scolded herself. _That’s over. You know it’s over._ He had been right—sleeping together had been a mistake. No matter what she did or what he did, there was a fundamental truth they couldn’t ever change: she was a mage, and Fenris saw magic as a dangerous curse. Better to let that night stay in the past.

 _The case will be over soon,_ she told herself. _Get some distance. Take a breath. Things will go back to normal._

As the hand closed and Naia raked in yet another pile of pennies, Varric yawned. “All right, everyone. As the owner of this office building I’m shutting us down for the night.”

Alistair sighed. “Maker, I’m looking forward to my own bed.” Then he frowned. “Wait. Can I got back to my apartment?”

Naia and Juliet exchanged a look. “I think that would be all right, if it’s what you really want,” Naia said tentatively. “But it might be safer to stay at the motel.”

When Alistair’s face fell, Fenris cleared his throat. “Or perhaps I could act as your bodyguard for the night. If Hawke is willing to surrender the job.”

Alistair blinked. “That’s—very kind. It’s a studio, though. The couch is comfortable-ish, and I don’t snore. I think.”

Fenris’s mouth twitched. “I’ve slept in worse circumstances, I assure you.”

“So glad that worked out,” Zevran said wryly. “Now, an awkward question. Where am _I_ to sleep? I would be happy to offer suggestions, should you need them.” He punctuated this sentence by winking at Naia.

 _I’m going to punch him the next time he hits on someone,_ Hawke thought. That was a nice thing about being a mage. No one ever expected you to punch them.

Fenris dropped his head into his right hand with a sigh. “We cannot release you at the moment,” he groaned. “Your agreement with the Guard stipulates that you are free when the case is officially closed. I fear that will not happen tonight.”

“He can stay in Alistair’s motel room,” Naia offered. “Hawke and I can take him.”

The assassin’s face lit with a grin. “Oh, can you indeed? I assure you, I will not disappoint.”

Naia rolled her eyes, but a little amused grin played across her lips.

Across the table, Varric grimaced. Hawke met his eyes in shared worry. Naia wasn’t naive, but she did have a habit of trying to rescue people. Even she and Varric fell into that category, in different ways. Varric had been a heartbroken wreck when he met Naia; Juliet had been adrift and depressed after leaving the Guard.

Somehow Naia’s faith in people—and dogs—was usually rewarded. But a professional assassin who had tried to shoot most of the people in this room a day and a half ago seemed like a tall order even for her. And that was putting aside the fact that Zevran appeared to have a strange interest in Naia. He’d flirted with all of them throughout the day, but Juliet had noticed his gaze lingering on her best friend in quiet moments.

“No, but you’re going to be disappointed,” Juliet said coolly, pushing back from the table. “Come on, let’s get our coats. We could all use some sleep after last night.”

*

Even though he had given up the idea of fulfilling this contract, Zevran found himself rather annoyed that he had not tracked down this motel room. It was within walking distance of the Dockside—a long walk, but still—and was just cheap enough to accept cash payments and minimal ID. It was a smart place to hide out and he should have spotted it. He had been thinking of Alistair Guerrin as a spoiled Councilman’s son slumming it as a bartender, that was the problem. He had assumed the boy would insist on more comfortable temporary quarters.

As they reached the door to the motel room, Naia suddenly paused and frowned. “Do you have clothes? Besides the ones you’re wearing, I mean.”

It took Zevran a long moment to realize she was speaking to him. “I … do not, in fact.” What clothing he’d brought to Ferelden was locked back in his old safe house, and thus now padlocked and under Guard control. “Why do you ask?”

Naia nodded. “I’m going to have to go back to check on my dog and pack an overnight bag. I can swing by my cousin’s place. You’re about his size.”

“You are going to give me clothes?” Zevran felt his forehead wrinkle in puzzlement.

“Don’t get excited, they’ll be my cousin’s cast-offs,” Naia warned. “But they’ll be clean. I’ll grab you a toothbrush too. Juliet, you OK?”

The mage smiled. “Tell Dog I said hi.”

With a little mock salute, Naia turned and walked back down the hall. Zevran felt an odd sort of nervousness as he watched her leave. Why would she consider it her responsibility to find him clothing? Did she fancy him some sort of pet—the dangerous assassin, tamed with a few cheap gifts? What did she think he would owe her in exchange?

He looked over at Hawke. The mage’s expression was inscrutable. Without a word, she opened the door to the motel room and raised her eyebrow, silently ordering him in. Since he was no longer suicidal, at least for the moment, Zevran obeyed.

As the door clicked shut, Zevran’s curiosity got the better of him. “You do not like me, do you, Ms. Hawke?”

The mage paused in the middle of unwrapping her scarf. With a shrug, she pulled the rest of it over her head. “Hm. Well. Let’s review what I know about you.” She held up a finger. “You kill people for money.”

“ _Used_ to,” Zevran protested mildly. “ _Used_ to kill people for money. I have not attempted to do so in well over twenty-four hours.”

Hawke continued as if she hadn’t heard him. She held up a second finger, ticking off his sins. “You hired morons to rob a bar and could have gotten people killed.” A third finger. “You tried to shoot me, Varric, and Alistair.” A fourth. “ _And_ you seem to have taken some sort of weird interest in my best friend.”

 _Ah. There, the real issue._ “My interest in Ms. Tabris is entirely practical,” Zevran assured her. “I asked her to interview me because I suspected she could help with my identity problem, and I wished to develop the connection. That is all. I bear her no ill will for catching me. Indeed, I rather admire it.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow. “That’s good to hear. Even so, I think you’re right. I don’t like you.”

Hearing that was an odd relief. It was a reaction he could understand, and even approve in the circumstances.

In response to her declaration, Zevran sighed dramatically and flopped back onto one of the two beds. His coat slid unpleasantly across the faux-satin comforter. “I am bereft. How shall I go on, knowing I have earned the enmity of such a stunning woman?”

“Hm. Yeah, that’s a tough one.”

Suddenly, light flared in the room. When Zevran sat up, Hawke was playing with a little piece of fire, swirling it around the tips of her fingers and tossing it between her hands. The firelight played off her features, creating bright spots and shadows that made her look even more intimidating than normal.

“While you work that out, here’s a warning.” The little flame grew as she toyed with it. “Naia likes to help people. Apparently, she’s decided to help you.”

Zevran felt his right eyebrow raise skeptically. Was that what the elf was doing, helping him? Why? To what end?

Hawke didn’t seem to sense his puzzlement. She just continued juggling her little flame, then abruptly caught it in the palm of her right hand. “That's her call.” The flame flared larger, illuminating every corner of the room with its orange light.“But if you make her regret it, I’ll boil you from the inside out.” With a little snap, the fire went extinct.

Zevran stared at Hawke for a long moment as his eyes adjusted to the newly-dim room. There was not a hint of exaggeration or humor on her face—just calm, matter-of-fact certainty. _She means it._

He smiled, but could feel his uneasiness showing in the expression. “Do you know, I think that is the first threat in some time that has actually frightened me.”

Hawke smiled back, and looked no friendlier. “Glad to hear it.”

 

* * *

 

From long years of experience with this sort of thing, Mei did not expect the lockdown to be lifted until the morning. The sensible thing would have been to go to sleep early, but she was a poor sleeper on the best of days, and this hadn’t been one of those.

So instead, she reached under her bed for her current guilty pleasure: an inexpensive paperback novel called _Guarded Hearts._ The book had been traded around the Circle more times than Mei could count, and this wasn’t her first time reading it. Novels “romanticizing illegal magic” were not, strictly speaking, permitted reading in the Circle. But it was worth the risk of a black mark in her file. There was something about the story of an apostate Guardswoman trying to do good in her city—and handle the sexual tension with her mysterious partner—that transported Mei somewhere else every time.

She’d left off with Guardswoman Liana sharing a romantic undercover dinner with the secretive, brooding Guardsman Darrian—one of her favorite scenes. She flipped to the familiar page and began reading, a little smile curving her lips despite the lousy day. She loved the way that pretending to be a couple forced Darrian and Liana to cast aside their reserve, to say the things they had each been feeling.

 _It’s almost like me and Cullen. Except we have dinner together every night, and we have to pretend we’re_ not _together._

With that thought, the sense of _elsewhere_ evaporated. She closed the cover on the book and stashed it back under her bed. Tears welled in her eyes and she pushed them away with the back of her hand, furious for crying over something so stupid.

_It’s just a book._

But it wasn’t just a book. It was the idea of never being able to hold Cullen’s eyes for longer than a moment for fear someone would realize what was between them. It was Max, not realizing what life was like for the mages. It was wondering if Cullen was as blind as his partner. Did he think she was happy here? Did he think the rules that bound her were easy, or just?

She lay in bed for a while after that, curled up on top of the covers as night fell. A Templar trainee brought her a simple dinner; she picked at it, and left most of it back outside her door to be taken away.

Then, just as she thought she might finally try to sleep, someone tapped softly at her door.

When she opened it, there was Cullen, his handsome face tired but worried. Worried for her, she realized as he met her eyes. Quickly, she pulled him inside, shutting the door as silently as she could.

“The lockdown will be lifted in the morning,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Maker, I hate this. Anders knows the penalties with his history.” He shook his head. “How are you? I know this must have been disruptive for you and Max.” He reached for her shoulder and squeezed it.

“It was a long day,” Mei admitted. “Did Max tell you what we learned from the Denerim Guard?”

Cullen let out his breath in a huff. “Jowan. And isn’t that a mess. He actually managed to smash his phylactery on the way out. I didn’t think we’d ever find him again.” He grimaced. “I know he was a friend of yours. I’m sorry you had to be the one to find out he’s involved in something like that.”

“No. I’m glad I know.” Mei took a deep breath through her nose. “Cullen, why didn’t you tell me that Jowan had used blood magic to escape? I assumed he had surrendered his license and left peacefully.”

Cullen’s mouth dropped in shock. “Maker, Mei. I—I assumed you knew, I suppose. The whole thing was gossiped to death. But you weren’t here when it happened.” His face fell. “I should have thought to say something. I’m sorry.”

Mei’s heart twisted. But she couldn’t bring herself to say _it’s all right._ “I don’t think many of the Denerim mages know,” she said quietly. “There is something of an information gap between the Enchanters and the Templars.”

Cullen blinked. This was clearly a new idea for him, and for a moment, Mei wanted to scream in frustration. But she forced herself to push on. _I have to know._

“Cullen? Why do you think Jowan did what he did?”

Cullen’s brows rose. “You knew him much better than I did, Mei.”

She shook her head. “I know. But I want to hear what you think.”

She saw the worry grow in her lover’s eyes. He could sense that this was a test. His answer came slowly. “I—Jowan has never lived outside a Circle. But he wasn’t talented enough to be assigned to the field. I imagine that was frustrating. Perhaps it was the power that tempted him. Perhaps he thought that if he could conceal the reason for his improvement, he might be assigned cases.”

It was a good answer. It wasn’t the right answer for Jowan, Mei suspected, but at least Cullen could see that her friend must have felt trapped.

“Why did you ask me that?” he asked softly, when she didn’t respond.

“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately,” she sighed. Wearily, she sat down on the edge of her bed. “Cullen, do you ever think about what life is like for the mages here?”

“Of course,” he said immediately. “Every day. Mei, I—I admire you so much. You live with so many restrictions. You could just walk out. But every day you make the choice to stay, so that you can use your magic to help people.”

She almost laughed. The Mei Surana in Cullen’s mind was a much nobler woman than the real one. “I _can’t_ just walk out, Cullen,” she said bluntly. “What would I do? The Templars would hand me some street clothes and a bus ticket into town. Once I got there I’d have no money, no friends.” She’d heard about a place where apostates could get help in Denerim, but she wasn’t about to share that with a Templar—and she doubted they could help as much as she’d need, in any case.

“And I’ve never held a job besides this one,” she finished. “I may not know much about the outside world, but I do know what a resume is.”

Slowly, Cullen pulled out the chair at her desk and sat in it. She could see the wheels turning in his head. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

She nodded.

“Mei. Do you—do you want to leave?”

Mei felt a tear leak out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I love using magic, Cullen. And not just to help people. I—I love casting spells. I’m good at it, and I love that too.”

Cullen flinched a bit. Mages weren’t supposed to talk about magic that way—as a force within them, something about themselves that they liked, instead of an inconvenience or a curse. But he didn’t look away, and he didn’t look horrified, and that gave Mei hope. “My magic is a part of who I am. I don’t want to give up my license. But I—I don’t know if I can stand the rest of it without going mad.”

 _Am I weak?_ she wondered. People like Fiona had shouldered this burden for so many more years than she had—had built careers that might actually change things in this place. Why was Mei the one cracking, the one ready to give up and run away? Quietly, she tensed her shoulders, waiting for Cullen’s response.

Cullen sat back in his chair. Then his face grew resolved. “If you want to leave, I’ll help.”

“You—what?” Mei felt her eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“I’ll help,” he repeated, his expression growing animated. “My sister Mia, she and her family moved to Denerim a few years ago. They’ll help find you a job, I’m sure of it. And when you find a place to live I—I can come visit you.” He smiled almost shyly. “We could go to dinner together. Can you imagine?”

The fantasy was so achingly beautiful that Mei wanted to wrap herself in it. Her, in a dress instead of her Enchanter’s blue suit; Cullen looking gorgeous in the candlelight, holding her hand in his for all the world to see. She wiped away a new trickle of tears with the tip of her finger. “I—Maker, Cullen. I think that’s the most romantic thing you could have said.”

Cullen slid from the chair to kneel before her. He wrapped her hand between his and kissed it. “Whatever you decide, I will be there. Always. I swear it.”

Mei wouldn’t have trusted that sort of promise from just anyone. But she knew in her bones that she could trust it from him.

“I love you,” she said softly.

His smile was so bright it almost hurt to see. “I love you too,” he whispered as she leaned in to kiss him.

*

It was two in the morning when Mei awoke suddenly, her eyes wide and her breath quick. A nightmare, perhaps, though she couldn’t remember it.

She shifted in her bed and then realized why her sleep had been disturbed. Cullen was nestled beside her, slumbering peacefully—and he could not be found there. Reassignment to another Circle was the least that would happen to both of them if he was.

She sat up and reached for him, beginning to shake his shoulder. “Cullen!” she whispered frantically. “Wake—”

She did not get the opportunity to finish that sentence. A hand clapped a cloth over her nose and mouth, covered in a dizzying, nauseating scent.

The last thing she saw was Cullen’s eyes fluttering open, and then widening in panic as she fell into unconsciousness.


	21. Chapter 21

Max stared at the clock at the back of the small classroom as it ticked down its last seconds. When it hit eight on the dot, he raised his fist and shook it, a triumphant grin on his face.

“Lillian, mark this day. This hour. This second. I have been waiting for this moment ever since I transferred to Denerim.”

“Waiting for what?” Lillian asked absently, paging through the stack of debriefs as the five trainees took out their notepads.

“Cullen Rutherford is _late._ I didn’t think he had it in him.” Max chuckled.

“So far he’s only twenty seconds late,” Lillian pointed out. “I’m guessing he won’t be much longer.”

“I know. So we’d better hurry. Come on, let’s start the class and make him interrupt us when he gets here.” He raised his voice. “Good morning, everyone. Since Agent Cullen Rutherford has not seen fit to join us in a timely manner—” he punctuated this with what he knew was a shit-eating grin, and was rewarded with similarly amused smiles from the trainees—“I guess we’d better get started. Agent Folmas, let’s cover the most common mistakes from the scenarios last week, shall we?”

Cullen being Cullen, Max had no doubt that he would be there within the next three minutes. But the door at the back of the lecture hall stubbornly remained closed.

At five minutes after the start of class, Max was amused—had the ever-organized Cullen Rutherford slept in, or Maker forbid, _forgotten_?

At ten minutes after, he began to worry.

At twenty minutes after, he knew something was very wrong.

Max could feel the unease growing among the trainees, too. Cullen might be a stern and uncompromising taskmaster, but he was never an unpredictable one. The idea that he might be late almost had to signal some kind of catastrophe. _Or a broken alarm clock,_ Max reminded himself. Cullen was only human, after all.

He took a breath and forced himself to focus on the lesson. “Taura. You were the only one who neutralized Agent Folmas in the simulation.”

Taura’s severe features arranged themselves into a satisfied half-smile, and she practically glowed as she anticipated the coming praise. Max forced his own expression to be neutral; Taura was competent, but he didn’t care for her mean streak. “Can you tell us how …”

Max’s question was cut off when the door at the back of the room exploded off its hinges.

His first, ridiculous thought was, _Wow, Cullen’s really upset that he’s late._ But then he heard the unearthy scream of rage, and saw the shape fly into the room, and reality hit him like a hammer.

“Abomination!” Lillian yelled.

The creature looked at her and shrieked, its twisted mouth opening so wide that its jaw seemed almost unhinged. There were still hints of human in the possessed mage, but only hints. The demon within had molded his shape to its will, lengthening the fingers into claws, stretching the skeleton to over eight feet tall. The tattered remains of a blue Enchanter’s suit clung to its form. The bulging muscles at its shoulders only served to emphasize how stooped and thin the rest of its form was—but then it wrenched a desk from its bolts and threw it directly into the middle of the room, and its strength became clear.

“Trainees! To the back of the room, now!” Max barked.

He drew his sword and began moving forward. Behind him, he heard Lillian take the safety off her trusted sidearm. Since Lillian couldn’t use the Templar arts, she alone at this Circle carried a gun. Max found himself simultaneously envious and relieved as he ran to face the monster toe-to-toe. He had fought an abomination once, long ago, at a Harrowing gone badly awry—but then he’d been one of five Templars sent to watch over the ceremony. Two-on-one odds might sound good, but not when the one was a magically infused monster.

Faster than Max could believe, the abomination charged forward and swept its claws at him. He barely parried in time and had to shake the creature’s grip from his blade before he could regain his footing. The abomination glanced down at the cut on its long fingers, then turned its gaze to Max and shrieked anew, its breath strangely cold against his skin.

He heard the bark of gunfire and the abomination flailed, howling in pain and grabbing for its eye. Max rushed forward and stabbed his blade into the creature’s heart, twisting to cause maximum damage. The blue fabric of the Enchanter’s suit tore as he did, and his stomach clenched as the abomination fell to his feet, dead.

Max was torn between relief and sorrow—but only for a moment. Half a heartbeat later, another monster charged through the door.

As Lillian swore and tried to find a good shot, the new creature reached for Max, trying to seize him in a ghastly embrace. Max danced away, slashing to create more distance, and began planning his next swing—but before he could strike, Taura leapt into the fray.

With a confident battle cry, she charged forward, a Smite exploding from her hands. The creature shrugged it off, seized the trainee by the head, and snapped her neck.

With an enraged scream that rivaled the monster’s, Lillian pulled the trigger three times. All three bullets found their target, tearing holes in the creature’s chest. As the abomination reeled back, Max swung his sword as hard as he could. The second abomination toppled over, its head neatly severed from its body.

Max knelt by Taura’s side, but he knew what he would find—no pulse, no breath, no hope. And outside the room, he could hear a new swell of screams echo through the hallway, could hear heavy footsteps and feel the rush of twisted magic nearby. There were more, and they were close, and coming closer. Max stood and slammed the door; it rattled and barely held its latch. _That won’t keep them for long._

“Trainees!” he barked, turning to face them. “As the ranking Agent in this room I am initiating emergency protocol. Agent Folmas will lead the way to the designated safe zone as quickly and quietly as possible. Do not attempt to use the Templar arts against these creatures—abominations are best fought with blades and guns, so until you get one of those, you stay out of the fight. Evacuation is your priority. Understood?”

A pause. Finally, a ragged chorus of voices responded. “Understood.”

Max lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it. “Good. Lillian, you take point. Lead the way down the fire escape. I’ll bring up the rear, if I can.” The classroom was on the third floor of the building, and while Max knew they would be vulnerable as they climbed down those ladders, he could see no alternative, not with what he suspected awaited them in the hallways. He felt a sudden rush of anger at whoever had decided to bolt these desks to the floor—there would be no making a barricade.

Lillian looked over at him, her chest rising and falling with a deep breath. She knew what he was really ordering her to do, and her dark eyes filled with mingled sorrow and respect as she nodded.

The dwarf opened the window and climbed out, and the students followed her, stunned into silence by the entire ghastly scene. As the last student left, closing the window behind him, Max gripped his sword, listened to the creatures’ screams as they drew closer, and prepared to buy the others some time.

_Cullen. Was this how you died, too?_

*

Marcus had tried to steel himself for what had to come. But he had not succeeded. His stomach threatened to turn to acid and chalk as he walked down the hallways of the Circle’s eastern wing, past the broken bodies of the Templars who had been caught unawares by the abominations.

“They are efficient allies, are they not?” Uldred murmured beside him.

Marcus forced himself to look down as he stepped over a body—an older woman, kind for one of them, who always brought the mage children treats on Satinalia. If he had wished to spare a Templar, he might have chosen her.

_This is the price. Do not be a coward, Amell. You knew what you chose. Face it, because it was necessary._

“Yes. Very efficient,” Marcus said faintly. He tore his eyes away from the female Templar’s corpse.

Screams from inside the Templar classroom quickened Uldred’s footsteps. Marcus scrambled to keep pace as they walked down the hallway. Was it his imagination, or had Uldred’s physical abilities changed? The demon inside his mentor had not shown its face, not yet. But he could sense a change in Uldred, and not one that entirely inspired confidence.

_Maker, let him keep his wits long enough to carry off this plan._

A glance through the doorway told him that the team of abominations had done Uldred’s bidding—though not without cost. Two of the creatures lay dead in front of the door—along with a Templar trainee—and another lay dead near the front of the classroom.

The Templar responsible, Max Trevelyan, was shaking as he stood before the remaining monsters, his feet planted firmly in front of the fire escape. He was bleeding through a nasty gash in his chest, and his dark skin was ashen and damp with sweat; he was clearly in pain. But the man was still standing. Marcus had to give him credit. He looked around the room and noticed that, aside from the single woman near the door, there were no Templar bodies. Trevelyan must have closed the window and stood his ground to allow them to escape.

Marcus felt saddened by the man’s imminent death for a moment—but only for a moment. _Of course he would defend his own. He never would have done the same for one of us._

One of the abominations took a swipe at the Templar, its claws moving faster than Marcus could believe. Trevelyan parried, preventing further injury, but stumbled—a broken leg, Marcus realized. Before Trevelyan could notice the two still-human mages at the back of the room, Uldred let loose with a whip of magic. Trevelyan stiffened, then fell, still clutching his sword as he did.

“Bring him here,” Uldred commanded, his eyes glowing yellow. The abominations hissed their disappointment, but one—a desire demon, oddly lovely in her host’s twisted body—picked up the big man as if he weighed nothing.

Marcus frowned. “We could have just killed him. Will you put him with Rutherford and the others?” He struggled to keep his face neutral as he remembered what Uldred had said about that group—“our allies require amusement.”

“No. Not Trevelyan.” Again, that yellow gleam. “That arrogant idiot has family in every Circle in Thedas. I have much more interesting plans for him.”

As Marcus tried to puzzle out what that meant, a motion outside the window caught his eye. No, he was not imagining it—a car was pulling up to the visitors’ entrance. Even from this high vantage point, Marcus could tell the vehicle was a wreck; the red rust on its bumper was visible from three stories up.

“We have visitors,” he told Uldred, motioning him to the window.

Uldred’s face went slack with shock as he raced to see who was interrupting them. But when he saw two men exit the car—one a slender, silver-haired figure, the other a young man with his hands shoved deep in his pockets—the Senior Enchanter began to laugh.

“Detective Fenris Leto, with none other than Alistair Guerrin in tow.”

“Guerrin—the Grand Enchanter’s son!” Marcus felt his face pale. _Maker, does he know? Do they know?_

If Uldred shared his anxiety, he did not show it. “Indeed. How convenient.” His grin was somewhere between predatory and triumphant when he smiled at Marcus. “Come. Let us prepare a little welcome for our guests.”

*

Walking through the door of the Denerim Circle was a deeply strange experience for Alistair. On the day when he’d looked Knight-Commander Greagoir in the face and told him thanks but no thanks, the Knight-Commander had glared at him and said, “This is not something to throw away lightly, Guerrin. There will be no coming back here.”

Alistair being Alistair, he’d immediately replied, “Is that a promise, sir? Because that’s actually sort of the point of not taking the commission.”

_And yet, here I am. The Maker certainly has a sense of humor._

_I hope I don’t run into Greagoir. That’s going to be awkward._

As the door closed behind him, Alistair opened his mouth to greet the Tranquil who usually sat behind the desk at the visitor’s entrance. But his awkward greeting died in his throat when he realized there was no one there.

“Huh. That’s … odd. And awkward. I’m not sure where Fiona’s office would be. I don’t really want to go knocking on the senior Enchanters’ doors." Alistair narrowed his eyes, as if staring might make a Tranquil appear to help them.

Fenris frowned thoughtfully. “An odd absence. I thought the Tranquil were … reliable, in that way.”

“Yeah, if you take away someone’s emotions, they tend to become pretty compliant.” Alistair felt his mouth turn down in a grimace. The idea of turning a mage Tranquil had been the thing he hated most about the Circles, and his future as a Templar.

“Detective Leto?”

Alistair and Fenris turned towards the voice with a start. A slender human mage was walking out of the Circle’s west wing, his smile friendly and his hands turned up apologetically. Alistair remembered his name half a second before he spoke.

“My name is Marcus Amell,” the mage said. “I’m afraid it’s a complicated day at the Circle. But please, follow me.”

“I. Um. I also have a meeting?” Alistair said hesitantly.

The mage inclined his head. “Of course. I will be happy to escort you to, ah, her, once I’ve seen the Detective to his destination.”

The little knot in Alistair’s chest loosened. She did expect him, after all. Arrangements had been made, people had been informed. Within minutes, he would be sitting in the same room as his mother.

 _My mother. A mage. An elf._ None of those were things he’d thought he held in his heritage. He’d spent a good five minutes looking in the mirror that morning, wondering if his elven mother was the reason he couldn’t grow more than a rather thin goatee. He’d almost asked Fenris Leto about elven facial hair before some unearned wisdom stopped him.

Trapped in his thoughts, Alistair did not realize how wrong things were until Marcus reached for the door. Only then did he feel the pulse of magic behind that door—sour magic, oddly scented, metallic and harsh.

“Detective! Marcus! Watch …”

The door burst open, nearly knocking Marcus to the ground.

Alistair had sat through several slide shows on abominations during his time at the Templar academy. They did not prepare him to see one in person. Let alone three of them, lunging directly towards him.

Marcus Amell began pulling a spell together; Alistair could feel the magic coiling from his hands. Detective Leto was even faster to leap into action—he lunged forward, his expression grim and his limbs flaring blue, and thrust his hand into the chest of the nearest creature. He twisted his forearm and the abomination screamed; it struck at Leto with its long arms, opening a gash on his cheek. The Detective hung on grimly, and after what seemed like an age, the monster went limp. Leto dropped it and stepped away, wiping at the blood.

Alistair’s heart leapt in hope as the other two abominations hissed and kept their distance. Surely with the three of them standing together, they could escape.

But then Marcus unleashed his spell—not at the monsters, but at Detective Leto. The Detective jerked once, then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to fall.

Only half thinking, Alistair leapt over Leto’s prone form and punched Amell with all the force he could muster. “What did you do to him?” he roared, surprised by the fury in his voice.

Amell stumbled, a hand to his cheekbone, but he did not respond with magic the way Alistair expected. Instead, he looked through the cracked door expectantly.

A voice echoed through the entry hall. “Do you want the elf to live, Mr. Guerrin?”

Alistair froze at the metallic echo in that voice. It sounded so deeply wrong.

“I will slit his throat and drink the lyrium as it drains from his veins,” the echoing voice said conversationally. “Unless, of course, you are willing to barter for his life.”

Slowly, a figure began walking through the door. Senior Enchanter Uldred stepped into the door frame. As he stared at Alistair, his eyes shone with a deep golden glow. Alistair’s breath froze in his chest as understanding slowly dawned.

 _Oh, Maker._ Fiona’s enemy was a powerful enchanter carrying a demon in his head.

Uldred stepped forward, extending a hand towards Detective Leto’s body. “I can crush his lungs in the time it takes you to flex your fingers,” he said. “Or, you can offer Marcus your hands and let yourself be held in comfort, like a good lad. We have no intention of hurting you. We simply need to have a, ah, conversation with your mother.” He chuckled. “She has been … reluctant to meet with us.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why,” Alistair shot back. “Is it the demons? I think it might be the demons. And probably the murder too.” He was guessing about the murder, but it seemed like a reasonable conclusion given the demons.

The yellow-gold light flared from Uldred’s eyes, licking his brows and cheekbones. Next to him, Alistair saw Marcus Amell flinch; the younger mage’s eyes remained an ordinary brown.

“You know _nothing_ about our nature or our purpose,” Uldred hissed. “Hold your wretched tongue, _boy._ Do you wish this elf to live, or not?” A spell began gathering at his fingertips—a nasty one, if Alistair had to guess.

“Leave him alone,” he blurted. “Just—just let him go.” That was a stupid request, he knew. Detective Leto was too deadly, too dangerous. Uldred would never simply set him outside the Circle door and wait for him to wake up. Even so, he held out his wrists to Marcus Amell, praying that Andraste would force the mages to honor their implied bargain. “Don’t hurt him. You can—can’t you just keep him unconscious?”

As Marcus began to bind his wrists, Uldred watched Alistair’s face for a long moment. He let out an ugly chuckle. “Oh, we can. But I have much more intriguing plans for your friend. With that lyrium in his veins, we are eager to see what kind of host he might make.”

Alistair’s mind reared like a frightened horse, kicking out in every direction. _What? Only mages can be hosts for demons._ Everyone knew that. _Could the Detective’s lyrium really …_

“Marcus,” Uldred snapped, his eyes shifting to his ally. “Take the boy away someplace safe. Do not harm him. He might be our only key to Fiona’s cooperation once we catch her.”

Alistair’s heart eased just a fraction. _They don’t have her. Not yet._

Uldred’s gaze remained focused on Marcus as the mage took Alistair by the upper arm. “And Marcus? It is time to choose your side.”

“I’ve chosen time and again!” Amell protested, his voice low and tight with fury. “We’ve worked side by side for months, Uldred. _I_ found a way to get Fiona here. And now you question my commitment?”

“Without the power our allies offer, you cannot stand against the Templars when they come for us.” Uldred’s voice rumbled with a metallic echo that made the hair on Alistair’s neck stand up. “You need to choose. Will you stand triumphant with us when the Circles are shattered? Or will you be an early casualty?”

Marcus stiffened, but said nothing. With a sigh, Uldred turned away. “I can wait only so long for your answer, Marcus. But in the meantime, keep the boy safe—and awake. I hope we will need him soon.”

*

Marcus Amell took Alistair to one of the offices on the second floor of the mages’ wing. He wondered for a moment if this was Amell’s own office, but the room looked too dusty and depersonalized—a vacant office, then. Alistair wondered if it was significant that Marcus didn’t want to use his own office for a temporary kidnapping. _It’s not like he can go back to it after this is all over._

Amell tied his wrists to the arms of a rickety office chair, one that was a bit too narrow for Alistair’s broad frame. The mage, however, did not seem to mind that the bind put Alistair’s shoulders at an awkward angle.

Then, with a glare in Alistair’s direction, he left.

Alistair immediately began testing his bonds. The knots Amell had tied were more than tight enough, he soon realized to his dismay. But his thrashing revealed something else. The old chair had one loose armrest.

Slowly, carefully, mindful of injuring himself and wrecking his chances at an effective escape, Alistair began working to break the armrest free. He pulled at it, twisted his frame, braced his body with his legs. Every motion pulled the screws a bit looser; every tug seemed to make the arm move just a little bit more.

He was just about to pull it free when he heard the doorknob turn. Marcus Amell entered the room again, carrying two slices of bread with some cheese shoved between them.

“Here,” he said, tearing off a piece and shoving it towards Alistair.

Alistair leaned his head away. “Uh. No thanks. Not hungry.” He tried to hold his arms very still so he would not give away the chair’s vulnerability.

“Suit yourself.” The mage tossed the sad little sandwich onto the desk. “If nothing else, it might pass the time.”

“I’m so sorry kidnapping me has bored you,” Alistair said, with all the disdain he could muster.

The mage did not reply. Alistair decided to continue filling the silence. “So. Um. You’re planning to join a demon army. That seems fun.”

Marcus’s handsome face darkened. “Shut up,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m not—you don’t understand.”

“You threatened me to get Fiona here. Now you’re going to … what, kill her so that Uldred can have her job?” As Alistair said it, he knew that wasn’t right. There were much subtler ways to kill one woman. “No. You want something bigger than that.” Smashing the phylacteries? Lots of dead Templars? No, that couldn’t be it—why bring Fiona here for that? “Something big enough to risk bringing every Templar in Thedas down on your heads.”

He sat back as the pieces fell into place. “Maker. That’s _exactly_ what you want. You’ll kill the most important mage in Thedas, unleash a crew of abominations onto Denerim, and the Templars will have no choice but to send everything they’ve got at you. You want this to be the first battle in a war.”

At first Marcus seemed to have no answer. He was staring out the window, barely seeming to pay attention to Alistair. Then, grudgingly, he responded. “The plan is somewhat more subtle than that. But, yes. We mean to see the Circles destroyed, and the Templars along with them. We mean to see mages freed.”

Alistair couldn’t blame the man. He might have wanted the same thing in his shoes. On the other hand, he sincerely doubted that making demons into “allies” was going to get Marcus much in the way of freedom.

But it was a moot point in any case, because as Alistair shifted his weight on the chair, the armrest came free.

Before Amell could react, Alistair stood—as much as he could with his left arm still tied down—and flung a Smite directly into his face. It was a half-formed one, and he could practically feel Cullen Rutherford seething at his poor technique, but it had the desired effect. Marcus’s attempt to grab for his magic was interrupted, and he toppled back, knocked unconscious by the blow.

Frantically, Alistair began untying himself from the remains of the chair, keeping half an eye focused on Marcus as he did. The mage was just beginning to stir when Alistair ran from the room, trying to keep as quiet as he could while still moving at top speed.

_Phone. I’ve got to find a phone. We’re going to need help._


	22. Chapter 22

Naia and Juliet spent that morning cleaning up various loose ends at Tabris Investigations. Juliet had a long consultation with Varric about the zoning laws for chickens. Meanwhile, after putting a few invoices in the mail, Naia picked up the office camera and began taking the photographs Varric’s contact had said he would need for Zevran’s new identity papers.

The assassin was playful and flirtatious as usual—at one point he offered to take off his shirt to “make the photos truly memorable”—but Naia could sense a certain hesitance in him. She caught him once or twice with a pensive expression, which he immediately replaced with an arrogant half-smile when he realized she was looking.

_ I hope he’s not thinking about how to take another shot at killing Alistair _ , Naia thought wryly as she placed the film in its canister. She’d never run across an organization like the Antivan Crows before. He could be playing a very long game, trying to recover from being caught, still planning to try again once their guards were down. But Zevran’s information had led them to Uldred, and it didn’t seem like revealing client identities was something he would do if he planned to return to the Crows.

Plus, he’d been practically sold to them as a child, had his life stolen by a gang of professional murderers. If it had been Naia, she would have sold out every secret they had simply out of spite. 

_ Or would I?  _ Maybe she would have thought of those people as her friends, her family. Maybe she wouldn’t even realize what had been taken from her.

Zevran caught her lost in thought and arched an eyebrow. “I do hope the photos do me justice, and will serve for your contact’s purposes.”

Naia chuckled and pocketed the film. “Cadash will manage, I’m sure.” Varric had worked with the other dwarf before, though he’d said it was probably best if Naia didn’t know the exact terms of the work the mysterious Cadash had done for him. “Besides, it doesn’t have to be a good picture. It just has to be of you.”

“My dear Ms. Tabris.  _ All  _ pictures of me are good pictures,” the assassin said archly.

Naia had to quietly second that. She wasn’t much of a photographer, but it would be hard for her to screw up a picture of Zevran. Even in Soris’s castoffs he was gorgeous. Maybe  _ especially  _ in Soris’s castoffs. Zevran was muscular for an elf and her cousin’s clothes were just a hair too small on his frame. The effect was especially nice around the shoulders and chest, where Soris’s old sweater clung to him like a second skin. 

In an effort to distract herself, Naia glanced up at the clock.  _ Almost eleven. Huh. _

Zevran followed her gaze. “Are you expecting something?”

“No. Well, yes. I thought Fenris would call to let us know how things went.” She didn’t expect to hear from Alistair until much later—a first meeting with his mother would be momentous, and would probably take a while—but Fenris’s plan had been to go in, let the Templars know what was going on, and let them handle Uldred from there. She wouldn’t have expected that to take this long, but maybe the Templars were just being thorough.

Zevran nodded in understanding. “I confess I am most curious myself. Especially given that my freedom seems to depend on the Templars’ answer.”

Naia raised her eyebrows. “If you’re feeling cooped up—”

“No, no, I have no wish to complain of mistreatment,” Zevran assured her. “I am simply—I find myself waiting to take the next step, as it were.” He narrowed his eyes at her a bit, almost as if he expected her to challenge him, or tell him what his next step would be.

“What do you want to do?” Naia asked curiously. 

The assassin clearly had not expected that question. He blinked and was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. Then that arrogant smile curved his mouth again. “Must I choose so soon? I had rather hoped for a vacation of sorts. Leisurely days exploring your marvelous city, exciting nights with beautiful companions.” He winked at her.

Naia was trying to think of an appropriate response to that when Varric and Juliet emerged from Varric’s office. Juliet’s shoulders were slumped and her face was resigned. “Bad news. Angeline McClusky doesn’t have a case against her neighbor. The chickens are legal.”

“Sorry, Hawke,” Varric said sympathetically.

“Maybe she’ll be so mad she won’t pay us this time, and we’ll never have to hear from her again.” The mage perked up a bit at that thought.

“With Alistair’s deposit in our bank account we can take the hit, for once,” Naia agreed.

“Did Fenris call?” Juliet asked. Her tone was just a bit too casual, and Naia winced inwardly. She liked Leto more and more as she got to know him, but—to put it mildly—he had some things to work through. She didn’t want Juliet getting her heart broken again.

“No calls yet.” Naia didn’t hide her disappointment. “I’m on pins and needles too. Want to play Wicked Grace to pass the time?”

Juliet nodded, then stopped and shook her head firmly. “I’d rather play cards. But I need to get this call to Mrs. McClusky over with. Otherwise it will be hanging over my head all day.”

Angeline McClusky’s fury was audible even with Juliet’s door closed—the tinny sound of her yelling through the phone still reached their little lobby. Naia admired the way her best friend kept her cool. She didn’t even raise her voice as she explained that her surveillance, and the law, was clear. 

Varric, meanwhile, was trying and failing to hold back laughter, one hand clapped against his stomach as he chortled. “I should be writing this down. It’s perfect comic relief for my next novel. A tough-as-nails hero forced to debate chicken laws with an enraged client.”

Zevran watched the door with a baffled expression. “Does this woman pay you well?”

Naia shrugged. “Usual rate. But she pays it on time. Not all of our clients do. And that’s important, since Varric and Juliet won’t let me steal fair payment any more.” She gave the dwarf a playful glare.

“I told you, Sparks, busting you out of jail would be a pain in the ass,” the dwarf said wryly.

Naia smiled, but the joke brought to mind her encounter with Guardswoman Jenkins. She shuddered a bit, remembering how close she’d come to losing everything.  _ Don’t ever forget you’re an elf,  _ her mother had warned her once.  _ You have to be twice as smart and twice as cautious.  _ The opportunities—and punishments—were very different in Denerim if you happened to be born with a thin frame and long ears.

Finally, as Juliet tried to hang up with Mrs. McClusky, the phone in Naia’s office rang. She practically flew as she ran to answer it, grabbing the handset from the cradle before the second ring was over.

“Tabris Investigations. This is—”

“Naia. It’s Alistair.”

Her client’s voice was low, just barely above a whisper. Despite the soft volume Naia’s entire body went tense. 

_ This is not a casual update-on-the-situation call, is it? _

Naia forced her voice to be steady. “Alistair. What’s wrong?”

“Uh. Lots. There are abominations here.” 

Naia’s brain froze. She’d heard of abominations before, but they had always seemed rather … abstract. Imaginary. The idea of one not five miles from where she was sitting felt almost ridiculous.

“Uldred’s leading them. He’s working with some other mages—a guy named Marcus Amell, definitely,” Alistair continued. “And he’s got Detective Leto. I couldn’t stop them from taking him. I think—oh,  _ shit. _ ”

The line went silent. 

Naia held her breath, not wanting to be the voice that gave Alistair’s hiding place away. She felt her hand begin shaking as she waited for another word, for a scream, for  _ something  _ that would tell her what in the Maker’s name was going on.

Urgently, she waved to Varric and Zevran from the lobby. The dwarf immediately went to extract Juliet from her phone call; the assassin moved closer, but did not enter her office. He seemed unsure of where his place ought to be.

Her entire body flooded with relief when she heard Alistair’s voice again.

“Sorry. Footsteps outside this door,” he whispered. “Naia, they want to start a war. They want to do something so huge and messy and dangerous that the entire Templar order will come here to fight them. It’s—it’s bad here, Naia. I passed bodies on my way to a telephone. A lot of people have already died.”

He sounded so damn  _ young.  _ Naia’s heart squeezed as Juliet and Varric joined her, their faces grave.

“Alistair. I want you to stay put, if you can. If you can’t, try to work your way closer to the exit. Don’t let them trap you on a high floor. We are coming for you. We’ll get everyone in the Guard if we have to. Got it?”

“Got it,” the former Templar whispered. “Just be careful. Really careful. I don’t know if …”

Suddenly, the line exploded in crackling static, and an ear-piercing shriek filled Naia’s ear.

On the other end of the line, she could hear the sounds of a fight—furniture shoved, punches thrown, and something that sounded like a spell cracking down on an opponent. Helplessly, she extended the phone to Juliet, wondering if her mage partner might be able to make sense of the cacophony.

Based on her friend’s face, the translation was nothing good. By the time the line went silent, Juliet was pale and her mouth was thin.

Then, suddenly, a voice spoke to them.

“It appears Mr. Guerrin has called some friends. To whom am I speaking?” The voice was older, male, educated but not polished. Naia didn’t have to think hard to guess who it was.  _ Uldred. _

“You first,” she replied, putting the headset back to her ear.

“Ah, of course. How rude. I am Senior Enchanter Uldred, and I have your friend. You are?”

She swallowed. “Naia.”

“Ah, would that be Naia Tabris, of Tabris Investigations? Mr. Guerrin was carrying your card in his wallet.”

Naia gritted her teeth. “What have you done with him?”

“Nothing permanent. He is alive, for the moment. As is the elf who accompanied him here. You have exactly one hour to ensure that they remain that way. That is your deadline for arriving at the Circle. Do not call the Guard or any other Templars. If I see any sign of Guard green or Templar silver, the boy dies, and so does your Detective friend. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Naia said faintly.

“Good. I look forward to meeting you, Naia Tabris.” With a click, the line went dead.

Naia returned the phone to its cradle with a slight shake in her hand. She looked first at Juliet, then at Varric, using their familiar faces to steady herself.

Juliet spoke first. “I’ll go. This is mage stuff. You two should stay out of it.”

“No way, Hawke,” Varric said. “You two should stay behind. Abominations or not that place is still crawling with Templars—and Uldred’s expecting you, Naia.”

“Not going to happen,” Juliet said.

“I’m definitely going. He’s  _ only  _ expecting me,” Naia pointed out. “Really, it’s you two who should be staying behind.”

“Nope,” Juliet and Varric said in unison.

Naia shrugged. “Well, we all tried.”

With that, she stepped to her wall and pulled down the framed photo of the Denerim skyline, one of several inexpensive pictures cluttering her office walls. This one, however, concealed a flat black panel with an inset brass dial—the wall safe that held Adaia’s inheritance within.

“Juliet, get your gun too. If nothing else it will be good protective color if we run into Templars.” To the side, she heard footsteps as Juliet went to retrieve her weapons. “Varric, you’re driving. I assume Bianca’s handy,” Naia continued, spinning the dial on the combination lock. Long hours of safecracking had led her to choose this model, with its near-silent gears and no electronic panel to bypass. 

“And me?”

Naia paused as she opened the safe door.  _ Zevran. Right.  _ Quietly, she wondered if he had been taking note of her combination.  _ I’ll change it if I survive this. _

“You want to come too?”

The assassin’s eyes narrowed, his expression laced with contempt. “I do not have much choice, no? If I do not aid you, there will be no identity documents, no way to escape the Crows.” His expression shifted; he looked at her with an odd sort of satisfaction, as if she’d finally revealed something he’d been expecting to see. 

Naia rocked back on her heels, a bit stunned.  _ Maker. He actually thinks we’re going to blackmail him into joining a suicide mission.  _

With a deep breath, Naia crossed back to her desk in two quick steps. She pulled out a piece of note paper from the top right drawer, found a pen that she knew still worked, and scribbled something down. Then she folded the note, pulled the canister of film from her pocket, and held out both to Zevran.

“This is Cadash’s address. Take the film there. Payment’s already been arranged. It might take a day or two, but you’ll get what you need.”

Slowly, as if he thought it might be a trick, Zevran crossed the room and took both objects. He stared at them, then blinked and looked up at her. “I—do not understand.”

“I’m saying you can walk out of here right now.” Naia held his gaze. “We could use your help, I won’t lie—whatever’s happening at the Circle is bad, and a fourth gun would be a big plus. But it’s your choice to make.”

At first Zevran simply stared at her, as if she’d grown a second head. When she had nothing further to add, he dropped his eyes to his hands, unfolded the piece of paper, and read the address. “I do not know where this is,” he said after a moment.

“They’re called maps, Slick,” Varric said from behind him, his voice laced with irritation. “I’ll find you one before we leave.”

Naia could see Zevran’s chest rise and fall as he breathed, clearly trying to decide what to do next. After a long silence, he looked up at Naia. “I have always found maps rather troublesome, to tell you the truth. I think I would prefer to be escorted in person. After we return from the Circle.”

Naia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thanks.”

The assassin shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “There is no need for thanks, Ms. Tabris. It occurs to me that Uldred is a loose end.” His lips curved in a predatory grin. “I do hate loose ends.”

Naia felt her mouth quirk in reply. “In that case, come take a look at the gun safe. I’m sure my mother left me something you can use.”

As Zevran evaluated his options, Naia pulled Fang from his case and began checking each moving part, making sure the weapon was clean and in good working order. She knew it would be, but the ritual was soothing. The rifle had been her mother’s favorite, powerful and accurate, and it almost felt like family in an odd way.

Juliet reappeared in Naia’s office with her own little sidearm nestled in a shoulder holster underneath her jacket. “I’m trying to decide something. Anders, the mage I met yesterday. He knows the Circle inside and out, and he said there was something weird going on there with Uldred at the center. He didn’t seem to know much more than that, but maybe we should stop by the apostate bar.”

“You think he would still be there?” Varric asked, a bit of skepticism in his voice.

Juliet sighed. “No, probably not. It seemed like he wanted to move on. He’s probably halfway to Highever by now.”

“Who’s halfway to Highever?”

In unison, their group turned towards the lobby. A good-looking blonde man was standing in their front doorway, his eyes focused on Hawke. He wore a ratty yellow coat, stained with several winters of use, and underneath that something that looked like an Enchanter’s suit. Naia’s eyebrows raised as she realized who this had to be.

Juliet let out an incredulous little laugh. “Well. No one, apparently. Hi, Anders. Mind telling us exactly what’s weird at the Denerim Circle?”

 

* * *

 

Anders hadn’t known what to expect when he’d followed the address on Juliet Hawke’s card to this little office near the alienage. But he was still fairly surprised to find four armed people standing in what looked like an accountant’s office. 

And then Hawke asked him that question. Exactly the question he least wanted to answer.

“You first,” he said, shamelessly stalling. “Who are your friends, and why do they all have guns?”

The red-haired elf spoke up first. “I’m Naia. This is Varric. This is Zevran.” She pointed to each of them in turn. “We have guns because of what’s going on at the Circle. Which brings us back to Hawke’s question. Your turn.” She grinned at him, looking almost friendly, but Anders could sense an intimidating edge to that bright expression. Maybe it was her fading black eye.

Anders shrugged uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m not sure. Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that.” He gave Hawke his most charming half-smile, the one that had the best track record getting people to do him favors or share his bed. “See, I had this great plan. I was going to sneak back into the Circle after the shit hit the fan—avoid the mess, get a little shore leave in the meantime, hope like hell no one notices I’m gone.” 

“Solid plan, blondie,” the dwarf interjected.

Anders wasn’t quite sure if he was being sarcastic or not. “Um. Thanks. But getting back in safely means finding out when the shit actually hits the fan. I was trying to figure out how to find out what’s going on there now, and then I remembered that I know a private detective who’s investigating Uldred and kind of owes me a favor.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. “So? What have you heard?”

Hawke’s dark eyes searched his face; her expression would have made stone look cuddly. “A bunch of abominations led by Senior Enchanter Uldred are tearing up the Circle. They’re holding our friends captive. So I’d say that shit has definitely hit the fan.”

Anders felt his face go slack with shock. “Andraste’s lacy knickers. Shit. I knew about Uldred’s demon, but I …”

“You knew Uldred was carrying a demon?” Hawke’s voice was only slightly louder than normal, but every hair on Anders’s arms stood at attention.

“I … yeah. That’s why I left the Circle when I did. I heard him plotting something with a crony of his. I figured he and his buddy would turn into abominations, take a few Templars out, I’d sneak back in during the cleanup phase, things would go back to normal.” When Hawke’s intense stare didn’t soften, he added, “I’m a spirit healer. Strong connection with the Fade. Ideal demon host. Whatever Uldred and Amell were planning, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay around for it.”

This excuse didn’t appear to impress the other mage. “But you didn’t tell anyone what you heard,” Hawke said flatly. “You just ran.”

Anders’s shoulders stiffened. “What exactly do you think would happen if I went to the Templars saying Uldred made a bargain with a demon?” he snapped. “You think they’d say ‘oh, thank you, Anders, you’ve saved us all?’ More like ‘hmmm, that’s interesting, Anders. How did you say you knew that? Have  _ you _ talked to any demons lately? Are you sure? Well, we’d better brand you just in case.’” 

Hawke’s glower cracked just a bit. Good, she wasn’t completely clueless about how the Circles worked. “You could have told me,” she pointed out. 

That honestly had not occurred to Anders. He’d wanted to help Jowan, but he’d also wanted to keep his distance from Jowan’s mess as much as possible.  _ Funny how living under constant suspicion makes you reluctant to share information,  _ he thought with a mental sigh.

“Look. I just wanted to get a few drinks and not have my brain eaten by a demon, OK? I make a point of not getting involved in stuff like this.”

Naia and Hawke exchanged a look that Anders couldn’t quite interpret. Then, after a pause, the elf said, “We could use your help, you know. We don’t know the Circle—we’re kind of walking in blind. And this isn’t just two abominations stirring up a bit of trouble. This is an army, and if they get what they want, a lot of mages are going to die.”

“You want my help? As in, you want me to go with you?” Anders felt his eyebrows raise up so high that he was surprised they didn’t merge with his hairline. “I’m not going near that place until I know it’s not crawling with monsters. Here’s some helpful advice: stay home. This is what Templars are for. Let them take the risks.”

Hawke was shaking her head before he’d even finished the sentence. “No. They have our friends. Uldred gave us an hour to get there before he does something permanent to Alistair.”

Anders turned up his hands helplessly. “Maker, you’re serious about this. I can tell you a bit about the layout? Templars in the east wing, mages in the west. Abominations will go through the mages’ wing first, trying to round up potential hosts.”

“What about the kids?” Naia asked, her eyebrows drawing down.

“Demons want hosts who’ve grown into their full power.” He really hoped that bit of common knowledge was actually true. “They’ll try for the adults first.”

“Thanks for the help.” 

The words were sharp, and he could feel judgment in Hawke’s gaze. He returned her glare with one of his own. “Sorry. I look out for myself. Maker knows no one else is going to do it. Believe me, if you’d grown up in a Circle, you’d make the same choice.”

Hawke’s expression grew troubled. She sighed. “Maybe I would,” she said quietly. “Good luck, Anders.”

“Come on,” Naia said. “We’d better get going.”

Led by Hawke, the little group began filing out the door one by one. Anders followed, descending the staircase next to Zevran as Naia locked up behind them. 

“I cannot help but feel that you are letting an opportunity slip away,” the male elf said softly. His voice was pitched so that only Anders could hear. “This would seem an ideal moment to destroy your phylactery, no? Once the Templars have reasserted control, it will be much more difficult.”

Anders’s breath froze in his chest.  _ My phylactery.  _ With the Circle in chaos that room would be unguarded, the usual Templars pulled away from their posts to deal with the abominations.  _ If it breaks, I can escape again and they’ll never find me. _

He almost asked if Zevran would find it and break it for him. But when he met the elf’s eyes they were hard and calculating, his half-smile cold. _That wasn’t an offer to help._ _It was a bribe._

A bribe he couldn’t turn down.

Anders felt his shoulders slump.  _ Guess I’m going back to the Circle today after all.  _ “Well,  _ shit, _ ” he sighed under his breath. “Fine. I’m in.”

“Welcome aboard,” the Antivan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We will try to make sure you don’t get killed—although I should warn you that my specialty is rather the reverse.” 


	23. Chapter 23

The hearing was swift. Its outcome was inevitable.

Cullen tried to plead her case. But the Knight-Commander wanted to protect his protege, and the story of a temptress leading a promising Templar astray was too appealing for the senior Templars to reject. Mei and Mei alone would bear the punishment.

Three days after being caught with Agent Cullen Rutherford in her bed, Mei Surana was made Tranquil.

*

The days blurred into one another after that. Mei woke. She ate. She ran errands. She served the mages and Templars, making food and doing laundry and tidying their rooms. It was mindnumbing work and no one would look her in the eye, but she was not capable of caring.

Every day she passed by classes of mages practicing their spellcasting, doing things that Mei would never do again. Mei wondered if she should miss it, but she found that she could not remember a time before this, a time when she had been able to cast spells, to laugh or cry or feel anger. There was only the numb emptiness inside her. That was all she was, now.

Sometimes she caught a glimpse of herself in a window or a mirror and stood utterly still, staring at the brand seared into her forehead.

*

As she walked through the hallways of the Circle one afternoon, Mei looked down to find a folder in her hand. It bore only four words as its address: “Agent Cullen Rutherford URGENT.”

 _Cullen will want this._ Mei quickened her steps.

But when she knocked on the door to Cullen’s office, it was Max Trevelyan who opened it.

The handsome Templar wore his usual friendly smile. But the instant he saw Mei it turned into something much uglier, a glare filled with the kind of loathing Mei had never seen on his genial face.

“You,” he spat.

Mei held out the envelope. “I am here to deliver this to Agent Rutherford.” Her voice sounded flat and far away.

Max snorted and stepped aside. “Go right on in. But he’s under the weather at the moment.”

As Max moved, Mei’s heart stopped. In a darkened office, Cullen was passed out at his desk, snoring and unconscious. His blonde hair was overgrown, his wiry curls a tangled thicket, and Mei could see the dark circles underneath his eyes even from the doorway. A puddle of whiskey was forming at his feet, leaking from the bottle in his lap. Its fumes wove through the room like poisoned gas.

“He’s been like this since you got that brand. A drunken mess. He’s going to lose his job, his career,” Max spat, his voice shaking with hatred. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To ruin his life. You hate Templars. You told me so.”

“That is not true, Agent Trevelyan. I cared very much for Agent Rutherford, when I had that ability.” Mei’s voice was even, unemotional, indifferent.

“Well. Wasn’t that unlucky for him.”

Suddenly Max was standing in front of her, ripping the envelope from her hands. “Get out. Don’t ever come back here again,” he snarled, looming over her. “Tell them to send some other … some other mindless nothing to deliver the mail.”

Mei turned and walked away, her steps even, her breath quiet. She was Tranquil. She could not respond. She could not be hurt. She could not even feel sympathy or worry for the man who had loved her enough to risk everything.

Enough to lose everything.

_We both lost everything._

A tear trickled down one cheek as she reached the door. Then, another.

Mei pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to still the shaking in her frame, trying to force her feet to keep walking. _No. I must not cry. Tranquil can’t cry._

Her fingertips brushed the teardrops away.

_Tranquil can’t cry._

More water fell from her eyes, running between her fingers.

And suddenly, the pieces fell into place.

Mei dropped her hand. Slowly, tentatively, she closed her eyes, tilted her chin up, and reached for her magic.

At first it did not come— _I am Tranquil. I cannot use magic—_ but then in a rush there it was, the mana within her coming to life, dancing and eager to be released. Warmth spread through Mei’s limbs, burning away the cold numbness of this nightmare. Her brain came alive again and she saw this place for what it was: a prison created by a demon. She did not have to think hard to know what sort of demon would bestow this nightmare on her.

_Despair. It’s a despair demon. And they don’t like fire._

Mei’s eyes flew open. A blazing circle of flame shot out from the floor underneath her feet.

The demon’s false Circle caught fire as if it were paper, the illusion burning away in an instant. As the flames hit the fake Max, he screamed and seemed to melt, turning into a nightmare of loose pink skin and long teeth. Its disguise gone, the despair demon hissed at Mei and lunged for her, its bony arms extended.

_Oh, no. You had your chance, creature._

Mei’s hands rose and she channeled her magic again, a more focused burst than before. Fire engulfed every inch of the demon’s form, beating against its skin, growing hotter the more magic Mei channeled into the spell.

Less than a minute later, the creature lay charred and dead on the false ground of the Fade. Magical scholars had debated for years about whether demons could really die, but Mei felt pleasantly confident that this one would no longer pose a problem for her.

She pushed her hands through her hair and tried to regain her breath, tried to collect her scattered thoughts. She ran her fingers over her forehead and almost collapsed in relief when she found no brand. The agony she had felt in the demon’s nightmare still clung to her and her heartbeat felt a little unsteady. She forced herself to focus. _How did I get here?_

Her last memory came back to her—the strong hand clapping the knockout powder over her mouth, Cullen’s panicked look. Was this why she had been taken? As a potential host for a demon?

 _Maker. How long did that thing have me?_ It had seemed as if months had passed during the nightmare. But for all Mei knew it had been an hour, or a year.

 _That’s a question for later,_ she thought, looking out at the landscape. It was a strange, shifting place, purple and green and yellow all at once. There was ground, and hills, and shapes that looked like rocks, but Mei suspected that the Fade was taking on that form as a reflection of her expectations and not as any real semblance of its true self.

_How can I to find my way out when what I’m seeing isn’t even real?_

Then, in the distance, Mei spotted something—a faint silvery glow, a little bubble caught in the fabric of the fade.

_Another dreamer. Cullen?_

There would be time to catch her breath later. Mei started running, her feet barely touching the ground as she flew towards her fellow captive.

 

* * *

 

Fenris was so lost in thought that when he realized he was climbing the stairwell to Hawke’s apartment, he actually jumped, startled by the familiar-yet-unfamiliar surroundings.

 _Why am I returning to Hawke’s_?

Even as he asked himself that question, he had to laugh. _Because she told me to be here by seven. And it’s … six fifty-nine._ His steps lightened and sped as he ascended the last few stairs.

Hawke’s apartment building was just as he remembered it … no, just as it always was when he came here. It was a generic apartment building, strictly no-frills, chosen because it was inexpensive and well-located. Somehow, the worn carpet and too-bright hallway lights felt luxurious and welcoming to Fenris.

He rapped his knuckles once on Hawke’s apartment door and had barely lifted them when it opened.

Naia grinned out at him. “She said seven. You’re late.”

“You’re one to talk. And I was barely late a minute,” Fenris scoffed.

“Well, it’s good to see you anyway. Come on in.” Naia stepped aside so he could enter the small apartment. It was a little one-bedroom, snug and efficient, but decorated with a feminine elegance that Hawke always blamed on her sister Bethany.

“We had a messy day,” Naia said, closing the door behind him. “Hawke’s in the shower. She told me and Varric to make ourselves comfortable.”

“Which means drinking up her bar, I see,” Fenris teased, observing the bottle of beer in Naia’s hand.

“Did we mention the messy day, Detective? I think we’ve earned a beer or six,” Varric said from the kitchen, where he was nonchalantly leaning against the wall. His expression was surprisingly friendly …

… no, not surprising at all. It had taken Varric a while to warm to the idea of him and Hawke, but that was in the past now. Maker, why was he having such trouble remembering things tonight?

“You want one?” the dwarf continued, pointing at the fridge.

Fenris shook his head. “I will wait for …”

And then there she was.

Hawke stepped out of the bathroom wearing a black t-shirt and soft shorts, her favored pajamas. Her hair was still a bit damp from the shower and it glistened softly in the light, the water’s weight rendering it longer, darker, and less wavy than normal. Her long legs were strong and bare and her brown skin glowed in the evening light. She was breathtakingly wonderful.

She met his awestruck gaze with a smile that promised all sorts of interesting things to come. “Hey, Fenris.”

“Well, that’s our cue, Varric. See you guys later!” Naia tossed her bottle away, gave Fenris a supportive wink, and vanished out the door.

Chuckling, Varric followed. “Have a nice evening, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

And then Fenris and Hawke were alone.

Hawke crossed the room and kissed him, her mouth warm against his. Fenris leaned into the kiss and let it linger, drinking in her scent.

“Maker, am I glad to see you,” she breathed, stepping back and rubbing her forehead. “I’ve had the worst day.”

“Wine?” Fenris suggested, spotting the bottle on the counter.

“Please _,_ ” Hawke said feelingly. “I’ll get something out for dinner. I was actually planning on cooking something—but then the rest of this day happened.”

Fenris turned his attention to finding a bottle opener. There it was, in the first drawer he opened. Behind him, he could hear Hawke rummaging for wine glasses. “Tell me what happened,” he suggested as he began twisting the corkscrew.

“Hmm. Maybe later.”

Hawke’s hands found his waist and began running up his torso, pressing into him hungrily. Startled, Fenris turned to face her.

“You know, I think I just thought of a way to make my day _much_ better,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against his, sliding her body close.

Her touch was demanding and insistent as she pushed aside his coat, slid his tie from his neck, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Fenris’s back was pressing painfully into the lip of the countertop, and his discomfort mounted as his shirt fell open.

_Why is she … no. We’ve done this before. Many times. With her, it’s all right._

But it wasn’t all right. As she ran her hands over his body and pulled his shirt from his shoulders, his heart beat painfully fast and the lyrium veins throbbed underneath his skin. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. Fenris tried to push her away a bit, to put some distance between them while he puzzled out what was wrong, but she just laughed and pressed herself closer, her hands moving to the button at the top of his trousers. The kiss grew fiercer and he felt her teeth nip at his bottom lip.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?” she murmured against his mouth.

Fenris did not know how to respond. Of course he wanted her, but … not like this. Hawke knew how difficult physical contact was for him. On that night three years ago, she had not even touched him until she asked what he wanted. He remembered what came next as if it were yesterday. He had caught her hand in his and drawn it to his chest, showing her where to caress him without discomfort or unpleasant memories, how to touch him in all of the ways he had been fantasizing about for months. She had learned quickly, watching his reactions and following his lead, and he had done the same for her, listening closely for every catch of breath, every moan or sigh. Nothing about this was the same.

And with that realization, Fenris saw the truth.

With a furious roar he shoved the demon away, sending her reeling across the room. “You are not Hawke,” he gasped, wiping away her kiss with the back of his hand.

Hawke’s face stared back at him in shock, her eyes wide and hurt. Then, when Fenris did not respond, she laughed. The sound was high and cruel and nothing like Juliet Hawke.

“Oh dear,” the demon wearing Hawke’s form murmured, her mouth turning down in a pout. “It does sometimes take a time or two to get these things right. It’s my fault for being so grabby, but I didn’t think you’d go for the demure sort. It will be better next time, sweetheart. I promise.”

“There will be no _next time_ ,” Fenris spat. With shaking hands he pulled his clothing back into place. “Do not touch me, demon _._ ”

“You should think more carefully before you toss me aside,” the demon purred. Her eyes turned a vibrant shade of purple as she watched him. “I can be what you want. _Exactly_ what you want.”

“You are _not Hawke_ ,” Fenris repeated, his voice a low growl.

Her seductive pout morphed into a vicious smile. “Don’t delude yourself, my sweet. You think she’ll forgive you? That her friends will be your friends?”

Fenris felt his stomach twist with shame as the demon gave voice to a wish he hadn’t even known he’d made. She must have seen pain in his expression, because her smile widened mockingly. “I’ve seen things in that head of yours. You hurt her. There’s no coming back from what you did. But stay here with me and I’ll make it all go away.”

“You’ll weave me a lie,” Fenris said stubbornly.

“Isn’t that better than having nothing? Isn’t that better than being alone?” She took a step towards him, and another. “I want you. Would anyone else say the same?”

Fenris lunged at her, his hand poised to rip through her chest, but the demon vanished in a puff of smoke, her high laugh echoing through the illusion of Hawke’s apartment. He spun rapidly, certain that she was behind him—but then she rushed at him from the right, seizing his head in her hands and turning him to face her. Fenris’s limbs went limp as he stared into her violet eyes.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she purred. “I’ll get it right, I promise. Just give in.”

Then, suddenly, the demon dropped his head and seized her own, her voice rising in a wail of agony. Fenris felt magic surge through the air as ice crystals began encasing the demon’s form, erupting through her skin as she thrashed. He stumbled back, watching the creature wail and struggle, but the spell was merciless as it crushed her in its bonds.

Moments later, the demon was still, her violet eyes wide and her neck limp as she collapsed to the floor. The ice broke around her as she fell, but instead of melting to water, it simply vanished as the spell faded.

Hawke’s apartment vanished. Fenris turned on shaking legs to find Mei Surana standing before him in a dark, menacing landscape, slowly lowering her hand.

“Are you all right?” the mage asked. “I … she wasn’t really Hawke.”

Fenris chuckled bitterly. “I am aware.” He took a deep breath. “Where are we?”

“The Fade,” Enchanter Surana said succinctly. Fenris’s skin tightened and crawled; he wanted to throw up.

“I don’t know how they did it, but someone put us here on purpose,” the mage continued, her voice almost infuriatingly calm. “Come on. Let’s go find a way out.”

 

* * *

 

Max laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and let himself smile his widest smile. _I did it. Knight-Commander just before my thirty-fifth birthday. Something not even a Trevelyan has achieved before._

He swiveled his head around the office, his pleasure in the promotion growing as he noted every detail—the huge windows, the plush carpet, the impressive bookshelves, the elegant yet functional desk. _Greagoir’s office wasn’t nearly this nice,_ he thought. _Why is mine so much better?_

_Oh. Right. I redecorated. But how did I make it twice as big?_

A knock on the door interrupted his efforts to puzzle out the answer. “Come in!” he called.

Cullen pushed open the door, a warm smile on his face. “Congratulations, Knight-Commander.”

“And you, Knight-Captain,” Max replied—because of course he had chosen Cullen to be his right-hand man.

His former partner extended his hand for a warm, enthusiastic handshake. “How are you enjoying the promotion so far?”

Max frowned guiltily. “Huh. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. I always kind of pictured this the other way around, to tell you the truth. You behind this desk, glowering sternly at everyone in the Circle, me as the dashing Captain who gets to leave the hard work to you.”

Cullen laughed. “Don’t flatter me, Max. Everyone knew you were destined for this. Not even the people who hate the Trevelyans could argue with your promotion. Your father hasn’t stopped calling to say how proud he is of you.”

Max laughed. “Dad always did have plans for me. So. What’s on the agenda for today?”

Cullen blinked. “Um. Very little. You know magical crime has been quiet ever since you busted up those apostate rings while investigating the Grand Enchanter’s case.”

“Oh. Right,” Max said uncomfortably. _Did I do that?_ “What about Mei Surana?”

His friend’s golden eyes widened in confusion. “What about her?”

“She and I … we worked together on that case. She said some things to me about the way mages are treated here.” He sat up straighter. “The mages. Are they happy? Are they being treated well by the Templars?”

Cullen just stared at him, his jaw dropped and his expression utterly baffled. Right before Max asked what the hell was wrong with him, though, Mei Surana stepped through his open door.

The talented mage beamed at him. “Max! How nice to see you in your new office.”

Max’s blood ran cold. _Since when does Mei Surana smile?_ “Um. Hello, Enchanter Surana?”

“You don’t need to be so formal. We’re friends!” She met his eyes with a wide, vapid grin. “The mages are all your friends. You made us so much more comfortable and valued as you climbed the Templar ranks. We’re very grateful.”

Slowly, Max sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Wow,” he said after a moment. “Your Mei Surana impression is _terrible._ It absolutely could not be any worse, in fact.”

Not-Surana tilted her head. “What are you talking about, Max? You’re confused.”

“It must be the stress of the promotion,” not-Cullen added. “Why don’t you take the day off?”

Max looked around the room. “Let’s see, what flavor are you? I’m happy, successful, everyone likes me, there are no cases to investigate. Got to be a Sloth demon.” He looked from not-Surana to not-Cullen and arched an eyebrow. “So why don’t you shed the costume?”

With a dramatic sigh, the images of Surana and Cullen melted and merged, forming a mournful-looking demon bearing a single purple eye in a worm-like head. “Things could be so much easier if you would just let them,” the demon informed him wearily. “You will be at peace here. I can give you anything you want. As Knight-Commander you could shape the Circle, shape the Order, tailor it to your liking.” It paused. “You could protect Caleb.”

Max felt his upper lip pull back from his teeth in a snarl. “You keep his name out of your mouth,” he snapped.

The sloth demon moaned. “Oh, no. Let’s not have any ugliness. You cannot fight me without weapons, Templar.”

Max groped for the spot where his sword hilt should have been, but it vanished underneath his fingers. The sloth demon hovered over him, its head tilted. Despite its lack of features Max was sure it was somehow gloating.

_I can’t fight, but I can sure as hell run._

With a burst of energy Max leapt to his feet, slapped his palm down on the surface of his desk, and vaulted over its surface. The moment his feet hit the ground he began sprinting to the door. The sloth demon howled in unhappy protest as he flung it open.

Max had had nightmares when he ran and ran and never seemed to get anywhere. This was exactly like that, except he was burning energy and breathing hard and might actually die if he didn’t find an escape. For a while all of the turns he made were right turns. Then they were all left turns. But every hallway was the same, and the sloth demon’s pursuit was relentless.

“You move _way_ too fast for something with ‘sloth’ in the name,” Max panted, turning yet another corner.

“We could both _rest_ ,” the demon wailed behind him.

_This is pointless._

Max spun around, planted his feet, and swung at the demon. It did not stop its pursuit in time and all but ran into his blow, its single eye striking against his fist with a satisfying _smack._ The sloth demon hissed in pain and lashed out at him with both arms, but it wasn’t a careful blow. The creature was basically flailing, and Max dodged its claws easily and kicked it square in the middle of its torso.

_Sloth demons. Not fighters. Good to know._

Behind the demon, Max could see the Circle hallways wobbling, as if he was seeing them through steam. A flash of silver caught his eye—a little rectangle, growing and expanding in the distance.

_A door._

Max gave the demon one final punch and then shifted his weight again. He put all of his remaining strength into a full-out sprint, running as hard and fast as he could down the false hallway towards that little sliver of silver.

When he reached it and flung himself through it, the Circle vanished.

Max collapsed onto his hands and knees in relief. He breathed hard, trying to get his bearings. He was in a weird, shifting landscape that seemed to have no horizon and no structure. _The Fade. Shit. It’s gotta be the Fade. How did I get here?_

Slowly, his surroundings took on shape—they acquired hills and trees and rocks, though they remained weirdly purple. Max stood and looked around, and around, wondering if he should try to walk, and if so, where.

“Max?”

Max spun around and came face-to-face with Detective Fenris Leto and Enchanter Mei Surana. Leto’s face was stony and expressionless. But Surana’s eyes were wide with surprise and her mouth was a little bit open. She almost looked … happy to see him.

He tensed and pulled his shoulders back. “So I’m ‘Max’ now?”

Enchanter Surana’s face shuttered, taking on its familiar, unreadable mask. “I apologize, Agent Trevelyan,” she said coldly. “I suppose being trapped in the Fade is no reason to forget protocol.”

Max clapped a hand to his stomach and laughed with relief. _That’s the real one, all right._ “You have no idea how good it is to hear you say that, Enchanter Surana. I was worried there for a minute.”

Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, but just as quickly, it smoothed out. “You saw—your demon showed you _me_?”

“It showed me a gigantic corner office first,” Max said. “It almost had me there, I’ll admit. Then you came in the door and you _grinned_ at me.” He gritted his teeth and pulled his smile wide in an imitation of the fake Surana. “Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. You told me that all the mages were happy and admired the good job I’d done. I knew then it had to be a demon.”

For the first time since he’d known her, Mei Surana smiled at him. It wasn’t anything like the demon’s smile—it was just a sardonic little quirk of her mouth, revealing a dimple he hadn’t known was there. “I’m glad to hear that was a giveaway,” she said wryly.

Max chuckled. “So. Anyone else wanna get the fuck out of here?”

“Indeed.” The Detective looked around the landscape with distaste. “I have had more than my fill of this place.”

“We’re in agreement, then.” Surana pulled her shoulders back and glanced around. “Let’s find our way home.”


	24. Chapter 24

Uldred and his abomination companions handled Alistair significantly less gently than Marcus had. They bound him hand and foot, then left him propped against a wall in another abandoned mage’s office. Alistair worked to loosen the bonds, but escaping kidnappers hadn’t been a class at the Templar Academy. The knots held firm.

He wasn’t sure how long they left him there. It was hard to gauge from the sun outside; it was a cloudy day, and they hadn’t propped him up with a view of the room’s sole window. He was debating whether to try to move himself when the door opened again.

Uldred entered, his eyes glowing yellow. “I have good news, Mr. Guerrin. Your friend is here.”

Alistair clenched his jaw. Maker. This was his fault. He’d gotten her involved in this mess. “She’s not really a friend. She’s just a private detective I hired. All she wants is the payout from closing my case,” he lied. “Just … just leave her alone.”

“I would, but I’m afraid she seems ready for a fight.” Uldred gestured to someone behind him. “Help Mr. Guerrin take a look out the window.”

Marcus Amell entered the room, his face tight and embarrassed as he looked at Alistair. A bruise on his jaw bore witness to the Smite Alistair had thrown at him, and despite himself, Alistair felt a little pleased about it.

“Sorry about your face. Sort of,” he whispered as Marcus hauled him to his feet.

The mage just shoved him forward, catching him by the back of the shirt right before he cracked his head against the glass. Alistair’s breath caught as he looked out the window. Not just Naia—Varric, and Juliet, and … was that the assassin? And who was the blonde human? He looked familiar, but Alistair couldn't quite place him.

Uldred sighed. “She brought company, as you can see. Who are they?”

“I dunno,” Alistair lied—well, mostly. “The dwarf’s a friend of hers, I think? She must have called for backup. They’re not Guard or Templars. She followed your rules.”

Uldred sighed. “It is my fault, I suppose, for not telling her to come alone.”

“Is that _Anders_?” Marcus asked behind him, his voice bright with incredulity. “I didn’t think he was the type to play at being the hero.”

“Nor did I. Perhaps we underestimated him.” Uldred sighed. “Well. With this new complication, we will need to strengthen our ranks.”

Alistair wasn’t quite sure what that meant. But Marcus apparently did. His captor’s breath grew fast and shallow. “Uldred. I’ve told you. I don’t want …”

“This is not a negotiation, Marcus.” Uldred’s voice was suddenly much louder and deeper—more demon than human. “You will join our cause.”

Alistair felt the hair rise on his arms as Marcus reached for his magic. But Uldred was ready. He stepped aside, admitting an abomination to the room—a surprisingly lovely male desire demon inhabiting its host’s elven body with only a few alterations, namely the purple eyes and the horns.

Marcus’s spell fell away as the demon looked him in the eye. “Come with me, dear,” it whispered, reaching for his hand. “This won’t be nearly as awful as you think. Whatever you want, it shall be yours.”

“I … all right,” the mage said, entranced. He extended his arm and slid his fingers into the demon’s, moving slowly, as if in a dream.

In spite of everything, Alistair felt an odd sympathy for Marcus as he was led away. His sympathy vanished, however, when he returned his gaze to Uldred and saw the yellow glow in his eyes. Marcus Amell had looked into that face and threw his lot in with the Senior Enchanter. Everything happening in the Circle now—the bodies Alistair had passed in the hallway, the demons roaming the Circle, the fact that Naia and Juliet and Varric were now in danger—he had a hand in all of it, and didn’t even have a demon to blame.

Uldred met Alistair’s eyes with a smug half-smile. “Please excuse me, Mr. Guerrin. Now that your friends are here, there’s something I need to do.”

 

* * *

 

The drive to the Circle was quiet and tense. Zevran did not even attempt to flirt with Naia or Anders, even though the three of them were squashed together in the backseat of Varric’s car. Juliet decided to see that as a positive sign. _He’s taking this seriously._ The assassin was a tough fighter; in theory, she should have been happy he’d risen to Naia’s subtle challenge. But she still wasn’t sure how she felt about having such an unknown quantity backing them up.

_Two unknown quantities._

She glanced into the rearview mirror to study Anders. The blonde mage was chewing a hangnail on his thumb and staring out the window, and his posture grew more and more tense the closer they drew to the Circle. Juliet couldn’t blame him. He’d said he changed his mind because he wanted to destroy his phylactery, but the idea of returning to the Circle _and_ coming face-to-face with an abomination had to be unnerving.

It was unnerving her, anyway.

It had been drilled into Juliet from an early age that a mage’s connection to the Fade exposed them to a dangerous vulnerability. More than one of her nightmares had involved turning into an abomination, or worse, Bethany or her father succumbing to a demon. The creatures they would face at the Circle were demons, heart and mind—but when they died, a mage would die with them.

 _There’s no way to help them,_ she thought with a sigh, turning her own face towards the window. She wondered if Uldred had sought out his demon, if he had thought he could simply borrow its power and retain his own sanity while he tore down the Circles, or if the demon had come to him and exploited his fondest wish.

It didn’t make a difference in the end, she supposed. Either way the outcome was the same. Either way the man Uldred had been was gone, along with all of the people his allies and victims had been.

Varric piloted the car into the Circle parking lot, smoothly operating the levers that had been installed to accommodate dwarven height. Since the Enchanters and Templars lived on-sight, there were only a handful of vehicles there—ones belonging to the non-Tranquil custodians and cooks, Juliet supposed. She would have hoped the abominations would let the non-mages simply leave, but the fact that the cars were still there was not encouraging.

Silence fell as Varric turned off the engine. Anders seemed to shrink within himself a bit as he stared at the Circle’s entrance, its huge glass-and-steel doors gleaming in the afternoon light. Zevran’s expression was mildly curious; his eyes sought the rooftops, the bushes, the shadows. Naia, too, was watching those hidden places, curling her fingers carefully around Fang’s barrel.

“Anything?” Juliet asked her friend softly.

Naia shook her head; a moment later, so did Zevran. “Whatever lookouts they have, I think they’re inside.” Naia unbuckled her seat belt. “So I guess there’s nothing left to do but go in.”

They moved forward in a cautious knot. Juliet and Anders took point, their hands out and fingers spread wide, magic gathered and ready to use. Varric, Naia, and Zevran followed with their guns raised, watching and aiming as Juliet and Anders pushed open the two doors.

The Circle entrance was eerily silent—and eerily ordinary. Juliet had expected it to be clear that this was a prison, but it looked more like an office building, complete with an empty receptionist’s desk facing the door. For nearly a minute their group simply stood, watching all of the doors and windows, waiting—but they seemed to be alone.

Slowly, Juliet lowered her hands. “Did anyone else expect a welcoming committee?”

“Define ‘welcoming.’ If you meant Uldred and dozens of abominations waiting to rip out our lungs, then yeah, I kind of expected that. Little offended they didn’t bother, to be honest.” Despite his casual tone, Juliet could see how anxious being here made Anders; a fine film of sweat had broken out on his forehead and his face was tense and pale.

“Well, if they’re not going to do us the courtesy of trying to kill us here, where should we go?” she asked him, hoping the question would steady his nerves. _You know this place. Concentrate._

“Anywhere else in literally the entire world, the way I suggested in the first place?” Anders suggested sarcastically.

Behind them, Zevran coughed something that sounded like “phylactery.” Juliet suddenly got a very strong suspicion about how Anders had arrived at his change of heart.

The Enchanter crossed his arms and looked around the room. “It depends on what we’re looking for. The abominations will have tried to capture mages to turn first. Do you want to fight them or avoid them? Because I vote for avoid.”

“I don’t think that’s an option,” Naia said behind them. “They’ll be holding Alistair and Fenris someplace secure, someplace with a lot of backup. Maker, especially Fenris.”

Juliet glanced back at her friend and saw a dark worry in the elf’s eyes. _Fenris is dangerous to have as an enemy. She thinks they may have already killed him._ She swallowed hard against a sudden tightness in her throat.

“You said the mages live in the west wing? Then let’s start …”

Juliet’s words faded abruptly as a massive wave of magic crashed down over the Circle. A torrent of energy seemed to envelop everything around her; her entire body turned to gooseflesh and she shivered violently. The others felt it too—Anders groaned and dropped to his knees, and Naia and Zevran both gasped and startled in unison. Even Varric, with his dwarven resistance to magic, jumped a bit and began looking around the room, seeking the source of the energy that was rushing past them.

Juliet steeled herself for pain—what could that much magic be, if not an attack—but to her shock, none came. As the magic stabilized, she swiveled her head around the room, but saw nothing to explain what she’d just felt.

Then Zevran tilted his head towards the entrance. “Ah. I believe we just received our welcome.”

With a growing sense of dread, they all approached the door, staring through the glass. A massive golden shield had dropped over the entire building. Juliet could feel its mana pulsing from ten feet away—an unfathomable amount of magical energy was being poured into the spell.

“Anyone want to take bets on whether we can get back out?” Naia asked.

“No bet, Sparks.” Varric rubbed his forehead. “Well, _shit._ ”

 

* * *

 

Max returned to his body with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a great deal of coughing as he sat up. His mouth was painfully dry, as if he’d spent an entire night with his jaw hanging open.

_Guess they didn’t bother making us comfortable._

He was sitting on the floor of a storage room, a dusty one if the tickle at his nose was any indication. A sliver of light streamed in through one narrow window high in the corner, illuminating stacks of cleaning supplies and a wall of toilet paper rolls. He ran his fingers over the gritty floor with a strange sense of relief. Now that he was back in the real world, the differences with the Fade were more obvious. The sloth demon, at least, hadn’t bothered putting dust in his illusion.

Next to him, Mei’s eyes flew open and she gasped. Max reached to help her sit up. “You feel OK?”

“Maker,” she groaned, shaking her head. “How long do you think we were under?”

“Too long.” Fenris Leto sat up abruptly, with none of the undignified noises that had marked Max’s return to his own body. The elf’s handsome face was tense with fury. “Even a minute in a demon’s realm is _far_ too long.”

Max’s brow furrowed as he took stock of his body. He felt a bit dehydrated, and a little hungry, but that was the worst of it. His hip ached with that strange, tight feeling that often accompanied magical healing. _They must have patched me up after the battle. Why?_ “I don’t think I’ve been out long. Maybe a few hours. I was taken the morning after Anders escaped. Abominations attacked the training session that morning. What about you, Mei—uh, Enchanter Surana?”

Mei looked at him, her dark eyes unblinking. “I was taken in the middle of the night, Max,” she said deliberately. “A few hours after you and I got back from Denerim.” Suddenly, her face went slack with alarm; she looked around frantically, seeking something else in the room.

“He’s not here,” she said, her fingers tightening into fists.

_Who’s not here?_

Before Max could ask, though, the Detective spoke up. “Nor is Alistair Guerrin. He and I came together on Guard business.”

Max shook his head, baffled. “How did we wind up in the Fade?”

“They must have put us to sleep to give the demons a shot at us.” Mei frowned. “But why the two of you? We’ve always thought that mages are the only ones who can be possessed by demons.”

“Maybe no one told the demons that,” Max said wryly. “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

“Or perhaps we were meant to stay asleep, held captive in nightmares and illusions.” Detective Leto rose to his feet. He spat to the side as he brushed off his clothes, his movements tense and nearly frantic. “I swore I would never again be a magister’s plaything, and yet I was taken prisoner here, and nearly bound to that … that _creature_ in the Fade. I feel as if I will never be clean. What does magic touch, that it does not ruin and corrupt?”

Max felt Mei go stiff at his side. He recognized the expression on her face—or rather, the lack of expression. He had thought her icy and emotionless but he was beginning to see that it was a mask, one that she put on to force herself to bite her tongue, to hold back the kinds of things she had said to him at the door of the Circle. For a moment, he thought she would say nothing here too.

Then she pulled her shoulders back and stood. “Me,” she said firmly, looking Detective Leto square in the eye.

The Detective blinked and looked at her, uncomprehending. She crossed her arms. “ _Me._ I’m not ruined, and I’m not corrupt.”

A thousand emotions ran across Fenris Leto’s face in the time it took Max to stand up. Most of them were some variation on “anger.” But Mei’s gaze was unwavering, and in the end, it was Leto who looked away.

“I am grateful for your help in the Fade,” he said stiffly.

She nodded. “You’re welcome.”

In an effort to break the tension, Max walked over to the room’s sole door and shook its knob. “Locked. Yeah, that figures.” He braced his legs and slammed his shoulder into the doorframe; it broke open easily. “Hope Greagoir doesn’t bill me for that.”

The storage room turned out to be the one on the lower floor of mages’ offices, a little room in the corner of the floor. The hallway lights were out, and Max found himself grateful for it. They had opened the door into a nightmare.

At least eight dead men and women were sprawled out in the hallway. Some had died where they fell, dead in an instant; others looked as if they had crawled to die sitting up, their backs against the walls and their hands still cupping the wounds that had killed them. Templars and mages alike lay still and dead in his path. They had fought and died here while Max slept.

He whispered the only words that he could summon. “Oh, _fuck_.” His brain felt as if it had rusted over and wasn’t working properly. He was staring at the bodies of people he had lived alongside for years. Shouldn’t something be happening? Shouldn’t he feel sadness, or anger, or … or anything besides this bright, horrified numbness?

“Fuck,” Mei echoed softly. Her dark eyes swept over the carnage, wide and stunned. “Maker preserve me. Andraste preserve me.” Then suddenly, her eyes snapped to the window behind them. “And what in Thedas is _that_?”

Max followed her gaze. An odd golden light was shining over the floor and walls. At first Max wondered if that might be a side effect of his time in the Fade, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized it was something quite different.

Mei all but ran to the window and pressed her hands against it, craning her neck to get a better look. “Maker. It’s a shield. And it encloses the entire campus.”

“They wanted everyone trapped in here.” Max scrubbed his hands over his face. “They created a spell so that no one could escape.”

“From one trap to another,” the Detective said dourly. “Can the magic be broken?”

Mei frowned thoughtfully. “There’s too much mana being poured into something like that to crack the shield directly. But if we interrupt the mages who are generating it, we can bring it down.” Her hands tightened into fists. “We need to find them.”

Max nodded his agreement, but before he could voice it, Leto held up a hand. “Hush!” he ordered.

It took a moment, but then Max heard it too—a voice coming from a room two doors down the hall. “Drink this, my sweet.” The voice was male, honeyed and warm, but with an unearthly echo in its timbre. “You’ll join your friends, and then you’ll join us. Just leave everything to me.”

With a furious snarl, Detective Leto leapt into action. His tattoos sent blue light crackling in every direction; he all but pulled the door off its hinges and flew inside. A moment later, as Max and Mei raced to catch up with him, a figure stumbled out into the hallway—Marcus Amell, looking dazed and shaken. He caught himself against the wall and immediately began to run towards the far end of the hallway.

“Amell!” Max called. “Wait! It’s us!”

If Amell heard him, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even slow his steps as he vanished into the stairwell. Max and Mei exchanged a look. Without really discussing it, Mei began running after Amell while Max entered the office he had come from, ready to help Detective Leto.

Max’s intervention, however, proved unnecessary. When he pushed open the door, the elf had the desire abomination by the throat. With a single, brutal twist of his forearm, the Detective snapped the thing’s neck and flung its body against the wall. It slid down and came to rest—next to another unconscious form, this one a human.

Max knelt, his throat constricting as he realized who it was: Enchanter Niall, a nice enough man, steady and a little dull. For a moment he hoped Niall might still be alive, simply trapped as they had been, but his chest did not move.

Footsteps announced Mei’s reentry into the room. “I couldn’t catch … Oh, Niall,” she gasped, kneeling next to Max. “Niall, I’m so sorry.”

“We ought to check the other rooms.” Killing the desire abomination seemed to have steadied Leto somewhat; his voice was no longer shaking in rage, at least. “They might have other dreamers trapped.”

The next two rooms down the hallway was empty. The room after that contained yet more bodies—mages like Niall who had not survived their imprisonment in the Fade, Max suspected.

The fourth room, however, made the third one look like a mercy.

A bright golden dome took up the entirety of the First Enchanter’s office, a smaller version of the spell that now encased the Circle. Half a dozen Templars, with ranks from recruit on up, were lying twisted and dead inside. The men and women bore signs of torture. Their silver-grey suits were stained with blood, along with the floor beneath them.

In the middle, his head bowed over clenched hands, knelt Cullen Rutherford.

 

* * *

 

_This should have been what the despair demon showed me._

For a moment Mei couldn’t move. She couldn’t even talk. All she could do was stare at Cullen, taking in every inch of what had been done to him while she was trapped in the Fade. His suit coat was gone and his white shirt was torn and stained. His folded hands were slick with blood; at least three fingernails were missing. His eyes were clenched so tightly closed that for a horrible moment Mei thought the demons had taken them from him. He did not open them as she approached the golden dome. He only continued his frantic, mumbled prayer.

“Cullen?” she asked softly. “Cullen, look up. It’s me. It’s Mei. Can you hear me?”

At first, the answer seemed to be no. There was no reaction, no break in the prayer Cullen was saying over his hands. Then, suddenly, his chin jerked up. His golden-brown eyes bore into Mei, wild and unfocused.

Then Cullen screamed and fell back, scrambling on his hands and knees as he stared at her.

“No. No, no, no, no, no. Not again. I cannot. Not again. Not her.”

Mei’s fingers tightened against the shield’s surface, as if she might break it apart with her fingers. “Cullen. It’s _me._ The real me. I’m not …”

“You will not trick me again,” he snarled. “I know how this plays out, demon. You’ll let me think we escaped, she and I, and then you’ll make me watch as you kill her, again and again and again. Or perhaps she’ll turn into an abomination and kill my friends, break my fingers, shred my flesh. _You will not trick me again_.”

Mei’s hand fell from the dome as he curled back from her, folding his hands in prayer once more.

“This is my punishment, the Maker’s sentence for betraying the Order. I gave in to the one wrong thing I ever wanted, and this is the price,” Cullen whispered. “Let this end, Maker. Andraste, I beg you. Free me from this place.”

“I’ll get you out, Cullen. Just … just hold on.” Frantically, Mei threw herself into a spell, trying to break the shield, but the horrid thing held fast no matter how she struck at it. She stepped back, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“ _Begone!_ ” Cullen screamed at her.

“Cullen!” Max barked, stepping to Mei’s side. “Pull yourself together. It’s me. It’s Max Trevelyan.”

Slowly, Cullen turned his head. His eyes met Max’s and for a moment, Mei thought he had done what she could not—bring Cullen back to reality. But then Cullen launched himself forwards and slammed both fists against the dome.

“Max! Get out of here! Maker, you don’t know—they kill you. Every time, they kill you.”

“That was an illusion, Cullen. A trick. I’m fine,” Max said. He laid his hand out over the dome, palm out, his dark eyes silently begging Cullen to match his gesture.

Cullen did not. He began pacing around his trap. “They kill you. They shatter your knees with a hammer and break your hands with bricks. They tell me I can save you if I give in, if I swear I will pledge myself to them, and then they kill you no matter how I beg. Run!”

The Templar’s knees buckled; he clasped his hands over his ears, swaying back and forth, whispering to himself. Mei and Max locked eyes in shared helplessness and pain.

“He is beyond reason.” Fenris’s gravelly voice, even and calm, broke through Mei’s rising panic. “You may be able to help him, but not now. Not before we slay those who tormented him.”

“We can’t leave him like this,” Mei whispered.

“You must.” The Detective’s voice was startlingly gentle. When Mei turned to him, his bright eyes were filled with sorrow. “You cannot help him right now, Enchanter. I am sorry.”

“He’s right, Mei,” Max choked out, watching Cullen sway inside the bubble. “We have to move forward. We can’t do anything for Cullen until we stop what’s happening.”

Mei did not move. Carefully, deliberately, she placed her hand back on the dome’s surface. “Cullen, who did this to you? Where are they?”

Cullen laughed humorlessly. “Senior Enchanter Uldred. Or what’s left of him. But you already know that, don’t you? Why bother toying with me this way?”

Max closed his eyes. “Cullen. Focus. Just—just focus on my voice. Please. Where is Uldred?”

“The Harrowing Chamber,” Cullen replied, almost sounding like himself. “You have to kill him.”

“We will,” said Fenris gravely. His tattoos flared with a faint blue light.

“And them. All of them. They have all—you do not know what his abominations do, what they are capable of,” Cullen rasped. “Any one of them who has been exposed to Uldred’s corruption—they must die. Every mage in this building. They have all been tainted, tempted, corrupted.”

Mei recoiled. “No. No. You know that’s not right, Cullen. You know. Mages aren’t all—”

“Mages,” Cullen spat. “Only mages have the power to do the damage you see here today. Perhaps if I had not been so infatuated, so blind—”

“Enough.”

Fenris’s voice held no heat, no animosity, but it seemed to startle Cullen out of his trance nonetheless. “We will kill Uldred and the others who helped do this to you,” the elf said gravely. He stepped close to the shield and looked into Cullen's face. “Justice will be done. You have my word.”

Cullen turned bleary eyes the Detective’s way. “Strange. That is a trick you have not tried before,” he said, his voice fading. “But I shall not—you shall not have my hope, demons. You will not break me. You will not break me.” Again, he knelt; again, he folded his hands and bowed his head. “You will not—you will not—”

Mei pressed a hand to her mouth and the world swirled around her; she had to drop to her knees to keep from fainting. As she tightened her fingers against the stained carpet, she heard Cullen’s prayer resume. “Maker, deliver me. Maker, forgive me. I renounce the demons of the Fade, the enemies who gather against you, the temptation I could never purge from my soul …”

A warm, gentle hand settled on her back. “Mei? Mei. We have to go. Come on,” Max said softly.

Mei nodded and forced herself to stand. Her legs felt weak and she was perilously close to throwing up. “We’ll come back for you, Cullen,” she whispered.

It did not seem that he could hear her. But she let Max pull her from the room nonetheless.


	25. Chapter 25

Naia was still contemplating the shield, and the fact that they were now trapped inside with an army of monsters, when she heard the gunshot.

She spun around, expecting to see Zevran or Juliet with their pistols drawn, but the others were as startled as she was. “East door,” Zevran whispered.

Juliet nodded and reached for her own gun. “Come on. Abominations wouldn’t use firearms. That could be someone who needs our help.”

“Or an abomination who found the armory and decided to pick up a new skill. Andraste’s ass, who runs _towards_ the sound of gunfire?” Anders griped.

“Aren’t the phylacteries in the Templars’ wing?” Naia asked sweetly.

“There’s a safe in the laboratory on the top floor, combination unknown, guarded by two Templars in the daytime and one at night.” Anders smiled and shrugged. “I mean, not that I’ve thought about it.”

“Maker forbid,” Varric said dryly as Hawke pushed open the door.

Another _crack_ of gunfire split the air as they entered the hallway, followed by an echoing shriek of pain and fury. Over Juliet’s shoulder, Naia could see a massive, twisted creature—at least eight feet tall, with bony spikes protruding from its tilted shoulders. It was towering over a dwarven figure in a silver suit—the source of the gunfire—and it was taking slow steps closer and closer to its prey. Purple blood was leaking from several wounds, but it was not yet wounded enough to stop its pursuit.

“Get down!” Naia hissed.

Juliet immediately dropped to one knee. In one easy, familiar motion, Naia lifted Fang to her shoulder, drew in her breath, and fired as she exhaled.

After years of practice Naia knew what to relax and what to tense so that Fang’s recoil wouldn’t pop out her shoulder. Even so, the gun packed a punch, and she tried not to have to fire it twice in a row. She was lucky this time. The bullet struck the creature at the base of the neck, tearing out its throat, and apparently that was enough to do the job. It toppled over with a gruesome gurgle, its claws grabbing for its throat as it fell. Naia lowered Fang.

Down the hallway, the other shooter holstered their gun and turned. It was a female dwarf, fair and freckled, with dark brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Naia tried to hide her surprise at seeing a dwarf in Templar silver.

“Agent Lillian Folmas,” the Templar called. “Nice shot. Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but who in the hell are you people?”

Naia raised her hand in a little wave. “Naia Tabris. I’m a private investigator from Denerim. We’ve got some friends who’ve been trapped here.”

Agent Folmas’s dark eyes swept over the group. They quickly came to rest on Anders. “Well. Isn’t this interesting. Where did you disappear to, Enchanter?” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “We put the entire Circle on lockdown looking for you. Guess when the trouble broke out.”

Anders swallowed hard. Naia decided to intervene. “We found him tied up in a storage closet in the west wing, actually,” she lied. _Circles must have storage closets, right?_ “The knockout powder had just worn off and he was trying to kick out the door.”

Anders nodded vigorously. “Yes. It was horrible.”

Agent Folmas didn’t entirely look like she believed them, but she nodded with the air of a woman who had much bigger problems to worry about right now. “In that case, sorry. Glad you’re safe,” she said flatly. “You said you came here for your friends?”

“A human man, about twenty-one. Alistair Guerrin. And Detective Fenris Leto of the Denerim Guard,” Juliet said. “He’s an elf. Silver hair. You’d remember him.”

Agent Folmas blew out a slow breath. “None of that rings a bell. But—well. I passed a lot of bodies on my way through the Circle.” She dropped her gaze. “I tried not to examine all of them too closely.”

Naia winced at her tone. Folmas was holding it together well, but Naia could sense a thread of fear and panic in her voice. Apparently Alistair hadn’t been exaggerating about the situation.

“Where is everyone?” Hawke asked. “Are there … Maker. You can’t be the only survivor.”

Folmas shook her head. “The survivors are holed up on the ground floor of one of the dormitories.” Naia noticed she didn’t tell them _which_ one. “Senior Enchanter Wynne and Knight-Commander Greagoir were getting ready to evacuate the kids and the wounded. They sent me to scout and sweep the building for survivors.”

“They sent you alone?” Zevran raised an eyebrow.

The dwarf swallowed. “No,” she said shortly. “We swept the east wing bottom to top. Then we ran into a bunch of abominations on the top floor, the one with the laboratory and Harrowing chamber. At first we tried to fight, but … three against twenty are bad odds even without demons. At the end all I could do was try to make it back to the others alive.”

 _Twenty. Twenty demon-possessed mages._ And that was just the ones Agent Folmas had seen.

“And now you can’t even evacuate,” Varric finished. “Not unless we’re really wrong about what that giant shield over the Circle campus does.”

“Yeah.” Folmas blew out her breath in a huff. “I’m pretty sure the reason the top floor was so heavily guarded is that they’re generating the shield in the laboratory. I saw inside the Harrowing chamber—they’re using it as a headquarters of sorts. Lots of abominations there, but no one casting a giant shield.”

“How in the Maker’s name did they create this thing?” Hawke asked, her brow furrowing. “I mean, a spell that powerful—” She caught Naia’s eye and coughed slightly. “It seems pretty powerful, anyway. How many mages would it take to cast something like that?”

“A lot,” Anders said behind her. “Five, maybe more. And they’ll want some quiet to do it. The top floor would be perfect.”

Folmas nodded. “But you’ll never make it through the abominations they have guarding those doors. You need to leave this to us.”

“Do you have enough people to evacuate the children safely and also take on those abominations?” Juliet asked bluntly.

The Templar’s mouth thinned into a tight line, which was more or less the answer Naia had expected. A little hint of a plan started to take shape in her mind.

“This laboratory. Anyone make potions in it?”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “Sure. All the time.”

Zevran met her eyes. A little half-smile curved his mouth. “Vents,” he said appreciatively.

Varric frowned. “I’m missing something, Sparks.”

“Potions laboratories—even magical ones—need a way to vent dangerous gas. There will be a lot of ductwork leading from the lab to the outside. Probably the roof.” This useful fact had served Naia well during a particularly memorable burglary.

The dwarven Templar nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

Naia tried to ignore the doubt in Agent Folmas’s eyes. “If the vents are big enough I might be able to squeeze through, or at least see what’s going on.”

“Then I think we’ve got our plan,” Juliet said—not entirely happily. “Finding Alistair and Fenris won’t do us much good unless we can get everyone back out again. And it sounds like they’re probably on the top floor.” The unspoken _if they’re still alive_ hung ominously in the air.

Agent Folmas looked over each of them slowly. “Ancestors. You really think you can do this.”

Naia straightened her spine and tried to look impressive. Juliet just shrugged, as if to say _of course we can_. But Varric met his fellow dwarf’s gaze and grinned. “Agent Folmas, you wouldn’t believe the weird shit Hawke and Sparks have done. If anyone can do this, they can.”

Naia appreciated the vote of confidence. But she couldn’t shake the worry that maybe this time, they’d picked a job even they couldn’t pull off.

 

* * *

 

Max had no idea how to help Mei.

He thought about talking to her. But everything he could think of saying seemed utterly stupid. _Are you all right?_ Maker, no, of course she wasn’t. _Can I do anything?_ No, he probably couldn’t.

Hell, he could barely keep it together himself. The sight of Cullen in that prison was going to be seared into his memory and his nightmares for a long, long time. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl into a corner and wish the world away. He wanted to kill Uldred more than he’d wanted just about anything in his entire life.

But one look at Surana’s white, drawn face told him that his agony wasn’t even a fraction of hers.

 _Andraste’s ass, I’m an idiot._ He’d thought Cullen’s crush was beyond hopeless. He’d told Cullen so to his face on more than one occasion. _How did I not see that they’ve been sneaking around together this whole time?_

“How should we proceed?” Detective Leto asked gravely as they stood in the hallway outside Cullen’s prison. To Max’s surprise, the Detective was directing the question not to him, but to Mei.

The mage drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. A flicker of light returned to her eyes. “The Harrowing Chamber. We can deal with their shield when Uldred and his friends are dead.” She clenched her fists; little ice crystals began dancing around her fingers, beautiful and deadly. Another breath rose and fell in her chest before she spoke again; the spell in her hands faded. “But we have to be careful. Maker knows how many Uldred has turned. We’re all capable, but abominations …” she fell silent.

“Yeah,” Max agreed. “They’re tough. But they’re not unbeatable.”

Mei looked up at him. “Max.” She swallowed. “Um. You should have a sword. You too, Detective.”

Max was about to ask if she really thought it was a good idea to go all the way back down to the armory when he realized what she meant. The fallen Templars had all carried weapons; daggers, broadswords, and longswords were littered over the ground.

He almost refused—it felt like a violation, somehow, though he knew his former comrades were long past caring—but they couldn’t take the risk of descending to the ground floor. With bile rising in his throat, he reached for the closest hilt. Andraste was merciful; it was a longsword, slimmer and lighter than his usual weapon, but it would do, and he would not have to search further.

Detective Leto seemed to have no such qualms. He looked over the available blades as carefully as he could without disturbing the bodies and selected the largest broadsword. Max saw a flash of skepticism on Surana’s face, but she didn’t voice it.

“I guess we go forward now,” Max said quietly. “Um. Up the stairs? Should we try to send someone to scout ahead?” That would have been standard procedure. But standard procedure in these situations assumed that you had more than three people.

“I believe it would be wise to remain in a group,” the Detective said calmly. “We will be more effective if we join our efforts.”

“I agree,” Mei said quietly. Her mouth tightened, and ice rippled around her hands again. “Let’s go find Uldred.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair leaned his head against the wall and stared out at the shield covering the Circle. He’d been staring at it for what felt like hours. He kept hoping that somehow it would vanish, but so far his crossed fingers were not having their desired effect.

_I should have listened to that Chantry sister who told me Andraste doesn’t grant wishes._

When the door finally opened, Alistair was almost relieved to see a massive Fear abomination, simply for the change of pace. That relief was almost immediately replaced by terror when the thing looked at him. Its host had been a human woman; her skeleton was now stretched to massive proportions and her hair was mostly gone, replaced by a crown of thin, jagged horns. The creature’s eyes stuttered and rolled, as if the demon wasn’t sure how to use them.

“Uldred wants you,” it rasped.

“What for? I make a mean Ferelden boil. And I’m told I pour a decent plain whiskey. Really, I’d be much more helpful if I knew a bit more,” Alistair babbled nervously.

The creature did not reply; it simply lifted him over one shoulder, letting his head sway behind its back. Alistair momentarily considered fighting it, but with his hands and ankles bound, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

_I need to wait for a better chance. I really hope I get a better chance._

Alistair bounced and swayed as the abomination carried him down the hall. Its breathing was heavy; he found himself wondering if its host had been in entirely good health before being possessed. He almost asked about it before realized that he kind of preferred not to know.

Instead of reaching for the knob, the creature gave the stairwell door a hard kick, sending it bouncing against the wall and ricocheting back. The abomination gave a hiss of annoyance as the door slammed into its outstretched hand.

That hiss turned quickly into a scream as an ice spell bit into that hand.

The enraged monster dropped Alistair, hard, on the landing. As he shook the stars from his head and tried to sit up, the abomination rushed down towards the source of the magic—Enchanter Surana, standing in a rumpled and dusty blue suit, her face grim and her hands raised. Next to her stood Max Trevelyan, sword in hand. He stepped forward, as if to intercept the creature before it reached the mage.

The abomination was so focused on Surana and Max that it did not realize it faced another threat. A blur of blue and silver light flashed before Alistair’s eyes, and suddenly Detective Fenris Leto had his hand through the abomination’s back. He narrowed his eyes and pulled; with a scream, the abomination spasmed and then died, its spine neatly severed.

“Detective!” Alistair had never been so relieved to see someone in his life. “I was sure they were taking you off to … well. Um.” He coughed. “Let’s just say I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you again.”

Fenris knelt beside Alistair and began working at the knots of his bindings. “I am glad to see you’re still in one piece as well, Mr. Guerrin.”

“I think they were keeping me around in case they caught … um.” He looked over at Enchanter Surana and Max, who were climbing the stairs to join them on the landing. “They wanted me as leverage.” His face fell as something awful occurred to him. _Was that why Uldred wanted me? Did he find Fiona?_

“Guerrin!” Max said. He flashed his familiar grin, but something about it looked off-kilter to Alistair. “You OK?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He didn’t feel entirely fine—he hadn’t had water in hours, his muscles hurt from being tied up, and his head was still ringing a bit from being dropped on the ground—but given the number of bodies he’d passed while looking for a phone, he wasn’t about to complain.

Max and the Detective exchanged a look Alistair couldn’t quite read. “You should stay on this floor,” the Detective said, just as Max said “We could use your help, Alistair.”

“Would help involve hurting Uldred a lot?” Alistair scowled. “He got Naia and the others dragged into this.”

Detective Leto’s face blanched. “Hawke is here?”

Alistair nodded reluctantly. The Detective’s mouth narrowed and his eyes widened; he looked torn between panic and rage.

_Oh good. If anything happens to her, I won’t live long enough to feel bad about it._

“We should try to find them,” Surana said suddenly. “Looking will take time, I know. But we’ll have strength in numbers.”

Alistair opened his mouth to say that was a great idea. Then he closed it when he remembered Hawke was a mage. Max Trevelyan was a good guy for a Templar, but he was still a Templar. He wouldn’t hesitate to act if he realized Hawke was an apostate. When he looked over at the Detective, he realized he and the elf were probably thinking the same thing. He was just about to say something vague about not having a lot of time when another voice cut through the stairwell.

“Mr. Guerrin. I was wondering what was taking so long.”

Alistair’s chin jerked skyward. Uldred was standing on the landing above theirs, his head and shoulders peeking out above the railing. He was staring down at them with his eyes gleaming yellow and a very satisfied smirk on his face.

Surana reacted first. Without making a sound, she flung her hands towards Uldred’s face. A powerful blast of ice rushed upwards, chilling the air by several degrees; it cracked against the railing with incredible force. Uldred barely ducked out of the way in time.

“I suppose that answers my question about the success of your initiation, Enchanter Surana,” he called mournfully. “Would you really throw your lot in with those who want to keep these prisons as they are?”

“Don’t talk to me about prisons,” she spat. “We found Cullen.”

Alistair’s stomach jerked and twisted. He hadn’t liked Agent Rutherford much, but he couldn’t imagine what a group of possessed Circle mages would do to a high-ranking Templar.

“Ah. I see. Regardless, you would be wise to hold your fire.” Uldred’s face appeared again—but this time, he had someone with him—a dark-haired female elf, her face bruised and pale. Uldred’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders and his hand was curved around her throat.

For the first time in his life, Alistair laid eyes on his mother.

He wasn’t sure if she could see him—but then her eyes moved and widened when they landed on his face. As he stared into her face he knew that she recognized him, somehow, though she would not have seen him since he was a baby. _I’ve always been told I look like Maric,_ he thought, inanely.

“Mr. Guerrin, I must apologize. I was remiss in not arranging this family reunion earlier, but the Grand Enchanter proved difficult to trap.” Uldred grinned. “And Enchanter Surana, I understand you’re rather fond of her. So I do hope you’ll take my offer. Come with me to the Harrowing Chamber—all four of you, without your weapons—or watch her die here.”

Fiona opened her mouth. “No!” she shrieked. “Alistair, Mei. You must not—” The rest of her words were silenced when Uldred clapped his hand over her mouth.

Alistair knew what he had to do. He had to run. Going to the Harrowing Chamber would not save Fiona’s life. Uldred wasn’t going to spare any of them. At best, he’d keep them alive just long enough to play a role in the opening battle of his war.

But then, to his shock, Detective Leto nodded. “We accept your bargain. The Grand Enchanter must not be harmed.” Slowly, he crouched and lay his sword on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Max hissed.

Leto drew a deep breath as he stood. “I am buying Naia and Hawke some time.”

 

* * *

 

The east stairwell was eerily silent as Naia and the others climbed it. They kept their weapons at the ready, watching all angles for attack. They also passed bodies—Templars and mages sprawled over the stairs and against the wall. They had tried to defend their home and died for it.

 _We’ll make them pay,_ Naia promised the bodies silently as she climbed.

As they passed the third floor, Zevran—who was climbing the stairs backwards and bringing up the rear—waved his hand for a halt. No one had time to ask why before a rage abomination flew through the door and charged for them. It was Bianca who did the trick that time, though Juliet and Anders’s spells didn’t hurt.

“Good catch,” Naia told the other elf when the creature was dead. He merely shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes.

They went even more slowly and more quietly after that, not wanting to risk being surprised on a landing. But no more abominations crossed their paths.

“Not that I want to complain about a lack of monsters. But I was expecting more of them,” Varric whispered as Naia picked the lock on the door leading to the roof.

“Maybe they’ve gathered somewhere, like the surviving mages,” Juliet theorized. “Ugh. Maybe they’re planning something.”

“Well, then let’s try to throw a wrench in their gears.” Naia shoved the door open. A blast of cold wind greeted them, whistling as it swept over the building. The little group collectively caught their breath as they saw proof of Lillian’s theory. A column of golden magic was rising through a ragged hole in the roof, arcing upwards and pouring its magic into the shield surrounding the Circle.

“Anders, Varric. Help me sweep the roof,” Hawke ordered. “Zevran, you help Naia find those vents.”

The gravel on the roof’s surface crunched underneath Naia’s boots as she and Zevran began their search. She went cautiously at first, keeping Fang lifted, but when no abominations appeared she lowered the gun and moved more quickly. Her first act, of course, was to peer through the hole, but the magic’s glow was too bright; she could not see inside. She listened for any sounds from the laboratory below, any indication about how the mages within might be generating the shield, but all she heard was a faint hum.

_I guess there’s no chanting. I kind of thought there’d be chanting._

She rose and met Juliet’s eyes, shaking her head silently. Without a better look at what lay below, that could not be their way in.

“Here,” Zevran called softly, waving the others over.

He was standing in front of a silver vent nearly as tall as she was; it was curved, designed to send the gas out of the room and off the side of the building, and just wide enough for someone to slide down. When Naia stood in front of it she could feel the warm air sliding out of it—a promising sign. The grate over its opening was solid metal and very tightly welded in place.

“Can you get this open?” she asked her friend.

Juliet grinned. “Leave it to me.”

After some judicious application of fire—a little flame that Juliet wielded like a torch—the grate came free enough to allow Juliet and Varric to pry it partway off. Once the metal had cooled again, Naia slung Fang over her shoulder and took a deep breath. She wished she’d brought her burglary tools. A rope and gloves would come in handy right about now.

“All right. I’m expecting to find a fan on my way down, and maybe a filter. There’s no getting rid of those without making some noise, so be ready to follow me fast. I’ll bang on the vent twice when I’m down.”

“Hold on.” Juliet crossed her arms. “A fan? What if it’s running?”

“We would have heard it by now,” Zevran answered quickly.

Naia nodded. “Just cross your fingers that they don’t turn it on after I get in the vent.”

Juliet’s brows drew together in a glare. Naia grinned at her sheepishly. “I mean, I’ll be fine! This is completely safe! See you all down there.”

With that, she climbed into the vent.

As slowly as she could, bracing her hands and feet against the sides of the thin metal, Naia inched her way down. The vent was about ten feet long and beneath her, Naia could see not one but two fans, separated by a filter. She groaned inwardly. _This is going to be loud._ Well, there wasn’t anything she could do about it, except work quickly.

Naia stuck Fang into the blades of the first fan and wriggled through its gap—fortunately it was large and she fit. Once she was standing on the filter she bent two of the fan’s blades so that it would no longer turn. A few kicks took out the filter, and she repeated the routine with the second fan.

With that done, Naia dropped into the laboratory.

She landed on the working surface of a fume hood, barely missing some expensive-looking glassware. She banged twice on the metal of the vent and then carefully crawled out of the hood into the laboratory, moving as silently as possible.

The fume hoods were set back in a little nook, away from the main work benches in the laboratory. The lab’s lights were off, but Naia could see a bright golden glow shining around the corner.

Zevran arrived first, landing on silent feet as he slid down the vent. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the corner, as if to ask _so what’s out there?_ Naia shrugged in response, then began inching forward. As Varric, Anders, and Hawke followed Zevran, Naia craned her neck around the corner, barely daring to breathe as she looked towards the source of the golden light.

There were no mages standing in a circle, generating the shield together. There was only an enormous machine constructed from glass and metal.

Two six-foot capsules that strongly resembled coffins formed the bulk of the machine; they formed the edges of the contraption, with the gears between them. At first Naia was puzzled about their purpose. But then she saw the tubes leading from them, and saw that the tubes were filled with red. They were leading to a spherical reservoir at the machine’s heart, one covered in runes from a language Naia didn’t recognize. A glass chamber atop the reservoir seemed filled with a silvery mist; the shield was rising from a hole in the top, flowing upward through the hole in the roof.

With mounting dread, Naia climbed the machine as carefully as she could and looked into a window at the top of the closest coffin.

Inside lay a woman, human, with mousy hair and a brand seared into her forehead. She seemed to be asleep, and not in any pain, but the slow, irregular way her chest rose and fell made it clear that she was badly hurt.

“Andraste’s ass,” Naia gasped, too shocked to keep her voice low. “Anders. Juliet. You need to see this.”


	26. Chapter 26

As quickly as they could, Juliet and the others pried open the lids of the chambers in the machine. Both of the occupants were Tranquil—one a human woman, the other an elven man—and the elf was recently dead, drained of too much blood for his heart to keep beating.

The woman, however, was alive. Zevran and Naia lifted her out and laid her on a laboratory bench as gently as they could. Without a word, Anders began healing her with a conviction and gentleness that surprised Juliet. Magic flowed from him like a stream, knitting together the cuts on her arms, compensating for the strength that had been taken from her. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a skilled healer work in person.  _ That’s not the kind of talent I would have expected from him. _

The woman opened her eyes slowly. “Enchanter,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and faint. “Am I sick? Senior Enchanter Uldred asked for my help. But I do not remember what I was supposed to do.”

Anders’ jaw spasmed. “It’s all right, Emili. You’re sick. You need to sleep. Senior Enchanter Uldred doesn’t mind. You should rest now.”

Emili’s eyes closed obediently, and moments later she was unconscious, her breath even once more.

Anders clenched his fists as he watched his patient’s chest rise and fall. “That absolute bastard. The Tranquil can’t say no to us. They can’t fight back. He probably told her to climb into that awful thing and she …” His voice cracked. “She was going to die in there, like Avran did. And Uldred didn’t care so long as their blood supplied the magic for his little trap.”

Juliet swallowed hard and looked over at the machine. “Maker. Where did that thing come from? Did he build it himself?”

Anders looked at her as if she were insane. “Do we care? Let’s smash that thing and get the hell out of here before Uldred finds us.”

“Or we could find him,” Naia suggested. Her eyes were focused on Emili’s face. “I think I’d really like to find him and kill him.”

“He’s a possessed Senior Enchanter with an army of abominations backing him up. We have four guns, two mages, and no help to speak of,” Anders said, crossing his arms. “Finding him would be suicide.”

“But we still don’t know where Alistair and Fenris are,” Naia argued. “We’re not leaving without them.”

“Have you considered the possibility that they’re dead?” Anders asked bluntly.

Naia’s face darkened. Juliet opened her mouth to back up her partner—but then closed it when the laboratory doorknob began rattling.

Naia, Zevran, and Varric all pointed their guns towards the door. Juliet reached for her magic, her fingers spread wide, and tensed in anticipation of an abomination bursting into the laboratory. But the knob just continued rattling, and something scraped uncertainly against the deadbolt.

Zevran’s eyebrows rose. “I believe someone is trying to pick the lock.” Slowly, his gun still raised, he stepped towards the door and opened it.

A very surprised-looking man in a blue suit was on the other side. He leapt visibly when he realized Zevran was pointing a gun at his head. “Shit!” he hissed as Zevran pulled him inside.

Anders glared at the newcomer. “Marcus Amell,” he spat. “You should probably shoot him. He’s one of Uldred’s.”

Juliet tried to conceal her shock.  _ Amell?  _ That had been her mother’s last name. She could even see some family resemblance with this man—same dark caramel skin, same wavy hair.  _ Great. I finally meet some family in Denerim and he’s probably a psychopath. _

“Wait!” the man said, holding up his hands. “I—I’m here to take down the shield. I’m not with Uldred any more.”

“But you used to be. Not a point in your favor,” Naia said. Fang didn’t move an inch.

Marcus looked over at Anders pleadingly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Anders, you know how bad things are here. Something had to change. I wanted to force the Templars’ hands, not … not build a demon army!”

“Shut up,” Juliet snapped.

Amell’s head swiveled towards her. Juliet met his eyes and glared at him. “No one cares about what you intended, Enchanter. We care about what happened. And what happened is that a lot of people got hurt. Maybe including our friends. So save your explanations for someone who gives a shit.”

“She doesn’t mean us. In case that wasn’t clear,” Varric added.

Amell’s face took on an expression close to a pout. Juliet heroically suppressed the urge to punch him. “Do you care that the hallway is clear?” he asked sullenly. “Uldred’s trying something big in the Harrowing chamber. This is our chance to pull the plug on that shield and get the hell out of here.” His eyes flickered over to the laboratory wall—specifically, to a large metal door with a keypad entry.  _ The phylacteries. _

“We’re agreed on pulling the plug. But we’re not leaving without our friends,” Juliet stepped closer to the machine and began running her hands over the tubes and gears, trying to figure out how she could disable it. The machine was basically a large battery—it stored the blood, turned it slowly into mana, then converted that mana into the shield. It was a hideously elegant mechanism.

Tentatively, Juliet reached out with her own magic. She could feel the power in the blood, dormant and waiting—but the mana above it was bright and powerful, like a hundred lyrium potions poured into a single vessel. The machine wanted to pull her magic away, to use it to join the mana powering the shield—but when Juliet tugged back, the mana slid towards her easily.

“Guys?” she said. “I think I just came up with a really bad idea.”

 

* * *

 

The top floor of the Circle was filled with abominations.

Uldred led their group past five of the creatures standing guard in the hall. One, a rage abomination, clearly wanted to attack—but a look from Uldred quelled it. Fenris found himself disappointed. Any chance to destroy one of these creatures was a welcome one. 

Fifteen more were waiting for them in the Harrowing chamber, standing in a ring around the room. The bodies of more than a dozen mages and Templars lay scattered across the chamber. The mages, Fenris knew, had likely died resisting the demons. He wondered if the Templars had died fighting, or if they had been kept for amusement as Agent Rutherford had.

Uldred gave the Grand Enchanter a hard shove, sending her stumbling towards the center of the room. Fenris saw that her hands were tied behind her back, preventing the use of her magic. A Desire abomination quickly moved forward to tie Enchanter Surana’s hands as well. She submitted quietly, her eyes taking in the room, evaluating their chances.

Fenris himself did not feel optimistic about those chances. Especially when the five abominations from the hallway entered the Chamber and shut the door behind them. 

_ Hawke. Please be safe. Please be close. _

Fiona spun around to face Uldred. Her hair was disheveled and her blue Enchanter’s suit was torn, but she seemed almost regal as she stared down her fellow mage. “Release them, Uldred,” she commanded. “The Templar and the other men are of no use to you.”

“I disagree,” Uldred said calmly. He gestured towards one of his followers. A moment later a Pride abomination lunged at Alistair, grabbing him by the throat. The boy grunted in surprise but did not panic; he just glared at the monster, his jaw clenched. Fenris took a breath, but did not intervene.  _ It would not help. _

“You’ve been reluctant to join our cause, Fiona. I admire your tenacity.” Uldred inclined his head in a mockery of a bow. “But if you do not accept the gift I offer you, you will watch your son die.”

“And what is the boy to me?” Fiona asked coldly. “A screaming babe I gave to his father decades ago.” But her eyes kept flickering to Alistair’s face. Fenris was not fooled, and he knew Uldred would not be either.

“So heartless, Fiona! Do you really want those to be the only words your son ever hears from you?” Uldred mocked. “Perhaps you need to hear his voice. Alistair, say something to your mother.”

Alistair turned his head and glared at Uldred, but then hissed in pain as the abomination tightened its grip. Fiona’s eyes grew wide when it seemed he could not breathe—but then the monster relaxed, and Alistair drew in a deep, gasping breath.

“Hi, Fiona,” he managed. “Nice to see you in person. So what’s with Uldred here?”

Despite the horror of the situation, Fiona laughed, though there was more than a little sob in the noise. “He seems to have a rather ambitious plan to start a war.”

“Do you think it’s his plan or the demon’s?” Alistair asked conversationally.

Uldred went still. His face paled, even as his eyes began glowing a deeper yellow.

Fiona arched an eyebrow at the Senior Enchanter’s reaction, then tilted her head to the side, appearing to consider Alistair’s question. “I would say the latter, given what I knew of Uldred before this unpleasantness began.”

“So what percent Uldred do you think we’re dealing with?” Alistair continued. “Thirty? Twenty? He still looks human, so there’s some of him left. But probably not much.” 

“Shut up,” Uldred hissed, his chest swelling in anger. “You know nothing, boy. You never even became a Templar. You are utterly ignorant. I am in control.” His fists tightened at his side.

“I’m a Templar. And I think I agree with Alistair.” Agent Trevelyan’s voice was cheerful, but his eyes were slightly narrowed, watching Uldred’s response.

“It’s a Pride demon,” Surana said, her voice cool and analytical, as if she were giving a classroom lecture on how to recognize demon species. “Taking healthy ambition and twisting it to violent purposes is typical of a Pride demon. This was almost certainly its plan, not Uldred’s.”

_We make a desperate gambit,_ Fenris thought, watching as Uldred seethed in rage _._ Pushing Uldred closer to a confrontation with his demon, however, was one of the few options they had to unsettle the situation and buy themselves more time. “I saw this many times in the Imperium,” he added. “Magisters seeking an edge over their rivals convince themselves they can keep the upper hand in a bargain with a demon. They are inevitably disappointed when they lose the battle and transform.”

“ _ I am still myself! _ ” Uldred roared. He wheeled on Fenris, his eyes so bright that the yellow glow seemed to pour over his cheekbones. “I will not allow myself to become a vessel! I will see the Circles torn down, I will keep the upper hand, and then I will cast this thing out of my head!” For just a moment, the yellow light faded in his eyes. 

Then it came blazing back, even brighter than before. Uldred screamed and clutched his head in his hands, shaking as the demon asserted its control. His shoulders began twisting and stretching. Spikes of bone tore through his skin. He grew taller, his fingers longer, his skin darkening to a bruise-like purple. Slowly, the scream died, replaced by an inhuman groan.

_ Evidently the demon did not like that plan. _

And in that moment, when all eyes on the room were locked on Uldred’s transformation, Fiona launched herself at the Pride abomination holding Alistair, and all hell broke loose.

* 

When Fiona struck the Pride abomination, throwing her body against its torso in a surprisingly fierce blow, it flung Alistair against the ground in sheer surprise as it stumbled back. 

He watched what happened next as if in slow motion. The Pride abomination wheeled on Fiona, her hands still bound. It grabbed her by the neck and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. As Alistair stood and launched himself forward, the monster flung the Grand Enchanter across the room with as little effort as a child might need to throw a rag doll. Fiona struck the far wall and slid down to the ground, where she lay in a crumpled heap, her eyes closed.

“ _ No! _ ” Alistair howled as he reached the monster. He knew, even as he swung his fist, that he was desperately outmatched. The abomination was stronger, faster, more resilient, and he didn’t even have a weapon. But in that moment he did not care.

The Pride demon slashed at Alistair with its claws, shredding the front of his sweater and drawing blood. But suddenly ice crystals bit into the abomination’s spine, causing it to arch back in agony. Alistair turned his head to see Mei Surana, her hands freed, and Max Trevelyan standing beside her with the rope in his hands.

“Alistair! Get a sword!” the Templar yelled, dodging as two abominations flung themselves in his direction. Surana cast a wall of ice behind her partner, blocking the creatures’ pursuit; she followed this up with a blast of fire that set both monsters ablaze.

Alistair set his sights on a longsword lying next to a dead Templar and began running towards it. It seemed rather pointless at first—three abominations were within striking distance—but fortunately for him, the monsters on this side of the room seemed to be focused on Detective Leto.

The terrifying Detective was showing the full force of his abilities as he fought the creatures. They were landing blows, and he was already bleeding from a gash on his cheek, but two abominations lay dead at his feet and he had his hand in the chest of a third. The wilier Pride and Desire abominations were now keeping their distance, waiting for their moment.

_ It won’t be enough,  _ Alistair thought wildly. Even if he and Max got swords, even if Enchanter Surana cast her best spells, even if Leto could kill more than his share— _ four against twenty. _

_ Four against twenty-one. Don’t forget Uldred. _

_ Uldred. _

The newly-transformed abomination was standing in the middle of the room, watching the chaos unfold and laughing. Surana had been right; it was a Pride demon, spiky and monstrous, easily a foot taller than any other creature in the room. Alistair grabbed the hilt of the dead Templar’s sword and drew a deep breath. 

“ _ Uldred! _ ” he shouted. “Or whatever your name is now.”

The monster turned to him. “Ah, Mr. Guerrin.” There was no trace of human left in that voice; it was rasping, scraping, metallic, and echoed with menace. “You intend to fight me, I suppose.”

“He’s not the only one.”

Mei Surana strode forward with magic flying from her hands. Her face was twisted with rage as she flung her first spell at the abomination. Fire and lightning and ice seemed to encase the monster all at once, and Alistair’s hair stood on end, electrified from the force of her magic. There was no question about it—Surana was powerful.

Uldred laughed and stepped towards the mage, seemingly unaffected—but the second step was harder. By the third step he was shaking as burns and gashes formed on his purple skin. Her next spell was ice, again, a more focused blast concentrated on the monster’s head and throat. 

“Do abominations need to breathe?” she snarled, clenching her fists. 

Crystals burst through the monster’s mouth, choking off his air, and more ice grew from that, all but enclosing his head. Uldred howled and beat at the spell with his claws, shredding bits of ice from his prison—but he could not break the spell as fast as Surana was building it. In a last, desperate attempt to save himself, Uldred launched himself at Surana, claws extended.

He never made it to her. Alistair stepped in his path and thrust his sword upward through the creature’s belly. The abomination’s skin was tougher than a man’s, and Alistair had to brace himself to push the blade in deep; his feet scraped against the stone floor of the Harrowing chamber, skidding back as Uldred fought him. Foul-smelling blood leaked out around his borrowed sword, and Uldred delivered a painful blow to his right shoulder, but Alistair bent his knees, tightened his grip, and pushed.

_ Maker, I hope his heart is still in the same place. _

It was, and finally, the blade sunk deep enough to find it. The monster that had been Uldred choked, fell to its knees, and then collapsed, Surana’s ice prison breaking as it struck the stone floor.

They didn’t have time to celebrate. As Alistair pulled his borrowed sword free, a desire abomination seized Surana from behind, lifting her off her feet, crushing her in its grasp. 

Alistair turned to help, but the elf shook her head frantically. “No, the Detective!”

He spun around to see four abominations converging on Detective Leto. The Detective’s left arm was hanging at a wrong angle, and though his tattoos still glowed blue, the light was fainter than Alistair remembered it. Max was trying to get closer, trying to help, but he was surrounded as well.

_ We’re going to lose. _

And then the wall exploded.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not serious,” Anders said incredulously after Juliet explained what she wanted to do. “That much mana channelled through one person? I don’t think it’s ever been tried.”

“We should share it, link our magic,” Amell proposed, his eyes brightening. He stepped forward, but halted his progress when Juliet gave him her most withering you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me glare. 

“No. If I’m going to do this, I need to be the one handling the magic. I don’t want to be in some tug-of-war over it.”  _ And no way in hell am I putting that much power in the hands of Uldred’s ex-right-hand man. _

Amell scowled but didn’t argue. Anders just shrugged. “Fine with me.”

“Of course it is,” she muttered. “Naia? Varric?”

“I don’t like this, Hawke,” the dwarf said bluntly. 

Naia chewed her lower lip. “I’ll back your play here. But … Maker. Are you sure?”

A horrifying scream ripped through the wall between the laboratory and the Harrowing chamber.

“No,” Juliet said shortly. “But we’re out of options.” 

She snapped her eyes shut, tangled her magic with the generator’s well of mana, and pulled.

For a long, silent moment, it appeared that nothing was going to happen. A little trickle of magic flowed towards her, but nothing substantial.  _ Was the machine designed to prevent this? _

But then every scrap of magic in that machine came rushing towards her and through her. 

More power than she’d ever imagined crashed into her limbs and stomach and brain with incredible force, nearly overwhelming her on the spot. Juliet’s eyes flew open. As the power threatened to explode out, wild and uncontrolled, she grappled to contain it and flung her left hand at the wall. A massive blast of magic shattered the bricks and wood between the laboratory and the Harrowing chamber.

As the dust settled, Juliet could see an army of very surprised abominations staring at them through the brand new hole in the wall. And then— _ Andraste, I can’t believe it _ —she saw Alistair and Fenris, paused mid-fight, bloodied but alive.

Juliet grinned and stepped through the wall with both hands thrown out. Lightning leapt from arms and struck the nearest abomination. From there, it branched out, striking two more. Then four more, then eight more, until every monster in the room was caught in Juliet’s web. 

Juliet clenched her fingers tight as the creatures’ shrieks rose in unison. She began to smell something a bit like charred flesh as she moved forward into the room, and she poured more and more power through the chained lightning. Behind her, she could sense Naia and Varric trailing in her wake, watching her back, their guns trained on any possible threats. But none emerged. Nothing could stand against the power she had stolen. Power surged from her, tumbling out of her like an avalanche, and one by one, the monsters fell dead.

As the last creature fell, Juliet felt an insane grin spread across her face.  _ Maker. We did it. We actually did it. _

Behind her, Naia whooped in triumph. Varric let out a relieved laugh. “Hawke, that was incredible even for you.”

Juliet turned to them with a grin as she wound down the lightning spell, drawing its power back into herself. “Not bad for …”

Then suddenly she felt the machine’s magic surge within her. 

Juliet tensed herself against it, tried to force the magic to subside and rest within her, but it was too much—she could not reabsorb this much mana.  _ I have to,  _ she thought wildly.  _ If I don’t … Maker. It’s going to explode. _

Lightning began to crackle around her, licking between her fingers and sending shocks through her, and she hissed in pain as she fell to her knees. Naia was there in an instant, kneeling beside her.“What’s wrong?”

Every muscle in Juliet’s body was shaking. Worse, little flickers of lightning were spreading out from her hands and knees, spreading across the floor. She could feel a burn starting to grow on her forehead, the energy she’d stolen scorching her from within.

“I—killing them didn’t use enough. I don’t think I can control it,” she whispered. “Naia, get everyone out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Naia snapped. She grabbed for Juliet’s hand, but had to jerk it back when she met with a vicious shock. But still, she did not move. 

“Varric, get her out of here,” Juliet yelled. But Varric, too, simply drew closer, his brow drawn in worry.

A shock wave rippled underneath the floor as Juliet fought for control of her borrowed power, and the walls and ceiling shook, releasing dust down onto the fallen abominations. Out of the corner of her eye she could see someone limping closer—Fenris, his face in agony as he took in the scene.

Juliet’s eyes met his and she shook her head. He shook his back and knelt next to her, cradling his broken left arm in his right.

A wind rose in the room, howling around their little group, creating an almost painful whistling sound. Juliet tried desperately to think of something, some last trick, some way to save her friends, if not herself. But she had nothing.

And then Mei Surana stuck her right hand in Juliet’s face. “Take hold!” she yelled, screaming to be heard over the wind.

Juliet shook her head, her limbs shaking, lightning still rippling over her. But Surana didn’t move. “I can help! Trust me!”

Swallowing hard, Juliet accepted the offered hand. Surana flinched when the lightning met her skin, but she did not back away and she did not let go. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and flung her left hand towards the sky.

Power exploded upwards and tore through the ceiling as if it were paper.

The torrent of energy seemed to flow on, and on, and on, but the elven mage’s face remained serene. Juliet felt the power within her rush away and outward, guided through Surana’s confident hands. Cracks began to spread out from the growing hole above them, and Juliet felt the structure shake around her as the ceiling and walls of the Harrowing Chamber began to break apart.

After an eternity, Surana lowered her hand and clenched her fist, breathing hard, her eyes still closed. A bright golden shield snapped into being seconds before the remains of the room crashed down on them. Juliet flinched as chunks of the building smacked against the outside of the shield, but Surana’s work held steady. 

Suddenly, all was quiet. Dust swirled outside Surana’s shield, and Juliet suspected that they should not remain on this floor much longer, but the room’s collapse had stopped. More importantly, her body was no longer rippling with lightning

Juliet turned to look at Fenris, and saw her friend smile in relief—just before her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates twice weekly moving forward! (Assuming Chapter 29 starts behaving and stops annoying me with its terrible-ness.) Chapter 27 will land on Thursday!


	27. Chapter 27

_ “Hawke!” _

Mei hadn’t known that Detective Leto’s serious voice could sound so frantic and afraid. She started to kneel to see if she could help—then found that her legs were giving out underneath her. Her knees struck the floor with a hard  _ smack. _

She was beyond exhaustion. She felt as if she’d been running for hours with no rest and no water. She had done her best to let the power flow through her rather than remain within her—but she still had to work to control it. It had felt like trying to control the flow of a river during a flood. She couldn’t imagine what Hawke had experienced channeling the spell that had destroyed the abominations.

Naia Tabris turned the apostate onto her back and frantically began checking for her partner’s pulse, using her fingertips to seek out a heartbeat underneath Hawke’s jaw. But then Hawke coughed and her eyes fluttered open. 

“Maker. Please tell me I didn’t faint,” she groaned.

The red-haired elf laughed in relief. “We’ll call it a very efficient nap. And by the way, I am  _ never  _ taking crap from you about fans in vents again.”

Mei found herself smiling through tears as well. She didn’t know Hawke at all, but the woman had just saved them, and she was glad the price would be no higher than a brief moment of unconsciousness.

At least, not for Hawke.

A soft sob drew Mei’s attention from across the room. Alistair was kneeling beside Fiona. One look at his face told Mei that her mentor would not be so lucky as Hawke—but she ran to his side anyway, climbing over debris and bodies, to see if there was anything she could do.

There was not. The abomination’s throw had broken Fiona’s neck.

Tears stung Mei’s eyes as she sat back. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wiping the water away with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and dust across her face.

Alistair shook his head, clearly fighting to control his emotions. “I’m sorry too,” he said miserably. “You were her friend.” He touched Fiona’s face, and Mei could only stare between the two of them, wondering how Fiona had come to have a human son and how Uldred had known to use him to get her to Denerim.

He seemed to sense the question. “She never told you about me, I guess?”

Mei shook her head.

“It’s … a long story,” he sighed.

The ceiling above them creaked ominously. “We should get out of here,” Mei murmured, as gently as she could.

Alistair nodded, then lifted Fiona in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Tears flowed to Mei’s eyes all over again when she realized that, at least, her mentor would not have to rest in this place for very long.

_ And now we can help Cullen. _

_ Maker, please. Let us be able to help him. _

* 

With Juliet restored to something like consciousness, Naia and Varric began supervising their little group’s evacuation.

At first, Enchanter Surana wanted to go back for another Templar the abominations had been holding captive. For some reason Naia couldn’t understand, Agent Treveyan seemed to think that was a bad idea. Finally, he seemed to work up his courage and said, “I’m not sure it will help him to see you, Mei. We should send other Templars and Enchanters up to break the spell. It sounded like—I think they used you to get to him. A lot.”

The Enchanter flinched visibly, but didn’t argue further.

In the laboratory they found the wreckage of the machine that had been generating the shield—along with a massive, melted hole where the phylactery safe had once been. Naia could still feel heat leaking from the remains. Only a few shards of glass and drops of blood had survived the white-hot fire.

“I guess we know what Anders and Amell were doing while Hawke burned up the rest of the monsters,” Naia muttered to Zevran.

They also found Emili sleeping peacefully on a laboratory bench, blissfully unaware of the destruction around her. Without a word, Agent Trevelyan lifted her in his arms to carry her safely down. The furious expression on his face told Naia that she wasn’t the only one wishing Uldred could die a few more times.

They made a dusty, grim procession as they worked their way down the east stairwell. Naia soon began hearing sirens in the distance; the explosion in the Harrowing Chamber had not gone unnoticed, apparently.

Knight-Commander Greagoir and the surviving Templars were waiting for them on the ground floor. Their swords were drawn and their faces were pale and anxious. Naia could sense in an instant that they were poised for attack, and that was before they noticed the swords and guns this strange little band carried. She raised both hands and tried to keep them away from Fang. She also tried very hard not to look over at Juliet.

Before anyone could speak, Max pushed to the forefront of the group and met the Knight-Commander’s eyes. Naia could feel the tension subside somewhat—the sight of Templar silver at the front of their little armed rabble had the desired effect. 

“Report, Agent,” the Knight-Commander snapped. “Who are these people?”

Max blew out his breath. “These people are civilians who just risked their lives to help us,” he said succinctly. “And that report? It’s going to be a long one. You might want to put away the swords.”

*

_ Well. This is a mess,  _ Juliet thought as she pulled her blanket closer. Their group had been routed to the Circle’s dining hall for debriefing while the surviving Templars—and the Guard, who had arrived with Guard-Captain Vallen driving the lead car—combed the wreckage of the Circle’s main building. 

Alistair, Varric, Naia, Zevran, and Juliet were sitting in a little cluster, waiting for their turn to be questioned. Paramedics had been summoned to evaluate all of them. They’d been particularly interested in Juliet—apparently her “color was bad,” whatever that meant—but Juliet had managed to wave them away after accepting a blanket and some water to drink. They were seeing to Fenris now, working to set his dislocated shoulder as he argued with them about stitches for his face.

It wasn’t that she was uninjured. She just didn’t think they could help. Something felt deeply off about her magic. It was as if the places within her that could hold mana had been shattered and scraped raw. The very idea of casting a spell almost made her nauseous. 

She wondered if Surana was feeling the same effect. Her eyes flickered over to the elven mage, who was sitting one table over next to Agent Trevelyan, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. She felt her stomach twist at the idea that she might have damaged someone else. Varric and Naia both seemed to sense her unease; Naia rested one hand against her back, and Varric shifted closer, looking at her face in worry. Juliet tried to give him a reassuring smile. His eyes narrowed and he did not look reassured.

_ Well, there will be plenty of time for me to apologize to Surana once I’m locked in a Circle with her. _

There was no other possible outcome. Max Trevelyan, a Templar, had seen her kill over a dozen abominations. Mei Surana, a high-ranking Enchanter, had needed to save her from the consequences of tapping that generator. There was no version of this story that didn’t end with Knight-Commander Greagoir leading her away. 

_ Do Templars use handcuffs?  _

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, trying to stay calm. And then a familiar, gravelly voice cut through her thoughts. “Agent Trevelyan. And Enchanter … Surana, is it? I understand you were on hand for … this.”

Juliet’s head snapped up. She found herself staring at the back of a coiffed blonde head.  _ Meredith. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.  _

Next to her, Varric crossed his arms and put on his most lawyerly expression. Naia simply tensed and stared, not bothering to hide her interest in the conversation.

“Councilwoman. We were upstairs when the explosion happened, yes,” the Templar said carefully. He glanced over at Surana, whose face was pale and resigned.

“Would you care to elaborate on exactly what took place?” Meredith asked coldly.

Surana spoke next. “Uldred and his followers were using some sort of generator to create a shield over the Circle—blood magic, drawing on two Tranquil trapped inside. They wanted to trap the Circle’s residents inside the grounds, I believe. After I escaped Uldred, I encountered a group of civilians trying to rescue Detective Leto and Mr. Guerrin.” She looked over at Hawke and the others before continuing. “They helped me find the machine, and I—I thought I could use the magic inside to fight back.”

Juliet’s jaw dropped.

“You decided to make use of the  _ blood magic _ inside,” Meredith said sharply.

“All of our options seemed bad at that point, Councilwoman.” Surana tilted her chin up defiantly. “Uldred had amassed a force of over twenty abominations in the Harrowing Chamber, and they were holding Agent Trevelyan, the Detective, and Mr. Guerrin captive.” She glanced over at Max, then, and Juliet could see uncertainty in her face.

But Max Trevelyan didn’t hesitate even a moment. “Enchanter Surana saved our lives,” he said smoothly. “The abominations had killed the Grand Enchanter, and they were about to kill the rest of us when she fried them to a crisp. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Juliet looked over at Naia, who looked as stunned as she felt.  _ They’re going to cover up what I did? What I am? _

Max continued his version of the story. “But the rest of the power had to go somewhere, and … Well. Boom.” He shrugged. “Guess we’ll need a new Harrowing chamber.”

Juliet couldn’t see Meredith’s face, but she could imagine it—that cold, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glare she’d flashed at her debate opponent during the last Council election. “Boom, indeed,” she repeated dryly. “Well, Agent Trevelyan. Enchanter Surana. It sounds as if you saved this Circle.”

“What was left of it to save.” Surana’s mouth tightened.

“Just so.” Meredith inclined her head at the mage. “Please believe that I will be having very serious talks with Greagoir and the First Enchanter in the coming months. Had Uldred and his followers broken out, who knows the damage they could have done to this city. This Circle’s leaders will need to ask themselves hard questions about who is at fault for what happened here.” 

“Translation: heads will roll, if she has anything to say about it,” Varric murmured.

Naia nudged Juliet with her elbow. “You stay put. I’m going to go fill Fenris in on the official version of the story.”

As her friend walked away, Juliet chanced a glance over at Surana and Trevelyan. The Templar was focused on answering more of Meredith’s questions, but after a beat, Surana noticed Juliet’s stare. She turned her head a bit to meet Juliet’s eyes.

_ Thank you, _ Juliet said silently.

Surana inclined her head once—just a fraction, barely enough to notice. Hawke decided to interpret that as  _ you’re welcome. _

 *

_ This is one adventure I won’t be putting in a novel. _

Varric had been sure that Hawke’s time as an apostate was over. He wasn’t shocked that a mage like Surana had come up with a cover story that kept his friend’s secret—but he’d almost fallen out of his chair when a Templar, of all people, backed it up.

_ Maybe my next book will feature a quick-thinking elven mage and a rule-breaking Agent with a heart of gold.  _ Seemed like a fitting tribute, even if their little group might be the only ones who knew the characters were meant to be Mei Surana and Max Trevelyan.

At Varric’s left, Alistair was staring over at his former instructor with a baffled expression. “I … did not think Max was going to do that,” he whispered when he saw Varric looking at him. “For once I’m glad I’m wrong about everything.”

“How’re you holding up, kid?” Varric asked gently. Not for the first time, he wished he’d packed a hip flask of whiskey. They could all use a drink about now, and maybe Alistair most of all. Varric had never seen Grand Enchanter Fiona in the flesh, but he didn’t have to guess whose body Alistair had carried so carefully down from the Harrowing Chamber.

“Maker. I don’t even know,” Alistair sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I … she laughed at some of the dumb things I said. I think I would have liked her. I never thought I’d have a mother, and then I found out she was alive, and now …” He swallowed hard. “She died trying to help me.” His voice was so soft Varric almost couldn’t hear him.

Varric said the only thing that came to mind. “Shit.”

Alistair nodded. “Yeah.” He blew out a breath. “I can’t decide if I could have helped stop this if I’d become a Templar, or if it would just have been easier for Uldred and his friends to use me to get to her.”

“You can’t think like that, kid.” Varric grimaced. “I ever tell you about my brother Bartrand?”

Alistair shook his head. 

“It’s not a great story,” Varric admitted. “But I’ll tell you sometime. Suffice it to say I’ve turned it over and over in my head, wondering if I could have seen it coming or stopped it from happening. And every time I realize there was nothing I could do and I’m just making myself crazy.”

Alistair’s mouth turned up in an understanding, sad little smile. “But you keep replaying it anyway.” 

“Yeah.” Varric sighed. “But at least it gets easier to remember the last part.”

* 

Fenris gingerly squeezed his shoulder, trying to verify for himself that it was no longer dislocated despite the continuing pain. It seemed to fit together well enough, though he knew his torso and arm would be black-and-blue with bruising for weeks to come. The paramedic had offered him magical healing more than once; his last, emphatic  _ no  _ finally took. 

He was in no mood to be touched with magic right now. It had nearly trapped him in the Fade. It had nearly killed Hawke.

He looked over at her, sitting among her group of friends, pale and burned but mercifully alive. She was watching Meredith converse with Agent Trevelyan and Enchanter Surana, a tense look on her face. Fenris nearly went to join her—or at least eavesdrop on the Councilwoman’s conversation—but then he saw Naia rise from her chair and walk straight for him.

She settled onto the paramedic’s cot next to him with a little  _ thump. _ “So Trevelyan and Surana filled the Councilwoman in on what happened,” she said easily.

Fenris’s stomach clenched.  _ How can she sound so calm? Does she not understand that Hawke will be taken away from us?  _ An apostate known by name to Councilwoman Meredith Stannard would not remain an apostate for long.

“Surana told Meredith about how she found that generator with us and used it to kill Uldred’s people,” Naia continued. The lie flowed so easily that for a moment Fenris thought he had misheard her. “Trevelyan said he was trapped with you and Alistair when Surana blew the wall apart. He claims she saved your lives.”

Fenris had to pause for a long moment to wrap his head around what he had just heard. “I … good.” He sighed, a little smile of relief curving his mouth. “Good.”  _ It seems I find myself in Enchanter Surana’s debt yet again. _

He looked over at Naia. “How is Hawke?”

“She’s all right. Or she was ten minutes ago when I asked. Maybe you should ask her now, though.” Naia raised both eyebrows at him meaningfully.

Fenris shook his head. “She wants to rest, most likely. I do not—I would not like to interrupt her.”

Naia pinched the bridge of her nose and clenched her eyes shut. “One of these days I am going to lose my patience and lock the two of you in a room together,” she informed him. “And you won’t be able to come out until you actually say all of the things you want to say each other, so bring snacks.”

Fenris chuckled at the image, but shook his head. “Not everything is best out in the open, Naia.”

“Not everything is best kept inside, Fenris,” she shot back quickly. “I’m giving you this advice as a friend. Talk to her. Whatever you want to say, out with it, and then let her say her things back. Then you’ll both know where you stand, and wherever things go from there, at least they can go  _ somewhere. _ ”

_ Would that be better?  _ Naia sounded so confident, so sure of her counsel, that for a moment Fenris was almost tempted. But what did he want to say to Hawke? Did he wish to be her friend? Her lover? How could he even ask for either, after all this time?

Fenris was trying to untangle that line of thought when Aveline Vallen strode into the room. “Detective, we need you if you’re able,” she called, her decisive voice cutting through the soft din of the room.

Fenris nodded to her and stood. He glanced down at Naia, who was looking at him with a single red eyebrow raised. He smiled at her in reply.

“Thank you for the advice, Naia.” He paused. “I am most glad to hear that you consider me a friend. I consider you the same.”

For once, Naia Tabris was actually startled into silence—but she did give him a warm smile as he walked away.

*

Zevran watched Naia Tabris converse with the intimidating Detective from a distance. From the way Leto’s eyes flickered to Hawke, he could guess the subject of their conversation. Before Rinna, he would not have understood what held back two people who clearly desired one another—but now he found he had some sympathy for the Detective and the mage. Sex with emotions attached made one surprisingly vulnerable.

_ That is the first time I have thought of her today. _

That thought made Zevran blink. Guilt flickered in his chest—but was it so surprising? He had been focused on the next steps in Denerim, and then on surviving the Circle’s dangers. For the first time in quite a while, the present had occupied his mind, rather than the past.

Across the room, the Detective rose from his seat next to Naia, striding to meet his commanding officer. Naia remained seated, a smile on her face. Zevran could read fondness in the expression mixed with more than a bit of exasperation. The Detective must be a puzzling friend, he supposed.

Without really thinking about it, he stood to join her.

Naia had flopped back against the paramedic’s cot by the time he got there, her hands laced behind her head and her knees bent. She looked nonchalant and relaxed—but there was a tension around her eyes, a tiredness. Small wonder given the events of the day.

Naia met his eye as he approached and arched an eyebrow. “Find your own crappy hospital-issue bed. This one’s mine.” But even as she said it she was sitting up to make room for him.

Zevran settled onto the cot next to her. “So. Yet again you saved Mr. Guerrin. I do hope your final invoice will reflect that fact.”

“I think Juliet deserves most of the credit,” Naia said with a little shake of her head. “Maker. I don’t know whether to just be glad she survived or strangle her for scaring us like that.”

He had to chuckle. “I believe she was wondering something similar on the night you and I met.”

She shrugged sheepishly. “All right. Fair point. Hey, congratulations, by the way.” When Zevran looked at her, puzzled, she elaborated. “Guard-Captain Vallen said you’d fulfill the terms of the deal if you helped us solve the case. Well, the case is solved, and you definitely helped. I think you’re a free man.”

_ A free man.  _ Something about those words brought Zevran up short. All his life he had tried not to think very hard about his existence with the Crows—had tried not to ask himself questions about what he did or why he did it. The Crows did what they must to train people loyal to them, people skilled enough to do the work. Questioning it was both foolish and pointless. But in this moment, he saw with terrible clarity that this was probably the first moment in his life when he could describe himself as  _ free. _

“That is an interesting thought,” he told her. “I look forward to using my freedom to explore my new city. Perhaps if I apply myself to the task, I shall find food here that does not give me a stomachache.”

Naia tilted her head. “You’re staying in Denerim? Are you sure? I mean, this was your last known location as far as the Crows are concerned.”

Zevran shrugged. “It is a large city, no? A perfect place to disappear.”

He wondered if Naia would argue with him, but she seemed to accept that as an answer. “In that case, welcome to town.” She looked out into the room and arched a sardonic eyebrow at the dusty survivors of the Harrowing Chamber, at the buzz of the perplexed Templars and Guardsmen trying to figure out what had happened. “Let it never be said that Denerim didn’t throw you a hell of a welcome party.”


	28. Chapter 28

_ Five days later _

Mei tried to keep her face serene as she sat in a chair outside the infirmary door, waiting for Max to emerge. She wanted to scream with frustration—but at the same time, she dreaded his return. 

For the past five days Mei had faced an incessant stream of debriefing interviews. Every day a higher-ranking Templar arrived at their Circle, and every day someone new wanted to hear Mei’s account of events in exhaustive detail. She’d only been able to learn about Cullen’s progress through Max, who fed her regular updates in between meetings. 

The news was not as bad as it might have been, but not as good as Mei hoped for. The healers kept Cullen fully sedated for the first twenty-four hours after his rescue, giving his body a chance to rest while the mages repaired the physical damage. But when he woke on the second day, Cullen had once again believed himself trapped and tormented, and had screamed at his fellow Templars to show themselves until the healers sedated him again.

Slowly, achingly, day by day, Cullen’s fellow Agents worked to convince him that the nightmare was over. On the fourth day, as a test, they allowed Max in. Max reported that Cullen had watched him closely, but had been able to carry on a conversation, and had seemed to believe that he was speaking with the real Max Trevelyan.

On the fifth day, Cullen asked Max if he could see Mei.

_ What should I say to him? That I love him? That I will be here for him? Maker, is this even a good idea? _

The door to the infirmary opened. “Come on in,” Max said softly, stepping aside to make room for her.

On wobbling legs, Mei entered the little room—and came face to face with the man she loved for the first time since Uldred’s death.

Cullen was noticeably thinner. His handsome face was drawn and haggard, his skin even paler than usual. There were dark circles underneath his eyes and his lips were almost bloodlessly white. But his fingers had been repaired, and someone had combed his hair, and he was still her Cullen.

Until he met her eyes and flinched.

Mei tried to keep her face calm, tried to hide how much that had hurt.  _ He can’t help it,  _ she reminded herself.  _ They used me to torture him, again and again and again.  _ “Hello, Cullen,” she said softly.

Cullen’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Hello, Mei.”

Max looked between them and coughed. “Well. I’ll be outside if anyone needs me.”

As the door clicked shut behind Max, Mei tried to think of something to say. But Cullen broke the silence first. “I am glad to see you’re safe. I was afraid—I was not sure if I should ask anyone besides Max.”

“I’m fine,” Mei said, mostly truthfully. “Though I’ve wanted to see you more than anything.” She reached for his hand—but then she saw the way his golden-brown eyes slid from hers, how he withdrew into himself just a bit, and she dropped her hand back to her side.

“I’ve asked for a transfer,” Cullen said abruptly. “They tell me they will ask me again once I am more recovered. But I know I—I cannot remain here.”

Mei breathed in, slowly. Then out. Then in again. Finally, she found the courage to ask the question. “Because of this Circle? Or because I will be here?”

Cullen drew a fistful of blanket into his hand and stared at it. He did not reply, which was all the answer she needed.

“I am sorry, Mei,” he choked out after a long, painful silence. “I—when I look at you, think of you, all I can see is that  _ place.  _ I know it wasn’t you. I know that. I—Andraste forgive me. I should be able to look at you without …” His voice broke. “But I can’t. I can’t forget how badly I failed myself, failed the Order.” He shook his head. “Perhaps this is what I deserve, to live when better Agents died.”

Tears began leaking down Mei’s cheeks. “None of this is your fault, Cullen,” she said, her voice shaking. “The demons tried for hours and hours to break you and they couldn’t. You’re alive because you’re strong, not because you’re being punished.” She forced the tears back; however badly she hurt right now, it had to be worse for him. “This didn’t happen because you loved me.”

Cullen met her eyes, his expression tired and filled with pain. “I do—I did love you, Mei. I wish—I wish I could be the man you loved again.”

Mei wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him to give himself more time, that she would wait, that she knew he could love her again. But she didn’t know that, so she kept those words within.

“You are still the man I love,” she said instead. “You are kind, and honorable, and honest, and you make everyone around you better. What you went through—what was done to you—don’t let it take who you are.”

Cullen looked towards the window, his shoulders moving in a faint shrug.

Mei felt her own shoulders slump. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He shook his head and did not look at her.

Mei allowed herself one last look at him before forcing herself from the room.

*

Max was sitting in the chair outside Cullen’s room when Mei emerged. “Is everything—oh,” he said, taking in her face.

Mei shook her head slowly back and forth. She tried to force herself to say she was all right—but when she saw the sympathy in Max’s eyes she felt herself shatter.

Tears began streaming from her eyes and she sobbed, clapping both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking so hard she thought she might fall over. Max stood and reached out a hand, tentatively touching her arm. 

Mei stepped forward and buried her face in his broad chest, bawling into his shirt, not caring what it did to his pristine appearance. She felt his arms close around her and she wrapped her own arms around him, clinging to her new friend, an unexpected shelter amidst her pain and her loss. 

“I’m so sorry, Mei,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Maker, I’m so sorry.”

*

Mei and Max walked around the Circle grounds for some time after that. The frigid air felt good against Mei’s face; it seemed to dry her tears and soothe the swelling around her eyes, or at least she liked to think it might. Max, bless him, asked her no questions.

But all too soon, their walk was interrupted by a figure crossing the grounds towards them—Knight-Commander Greagoir, accompanied by a striking woman with close-cropped black hair and a scar down her cheek.

Max’s breath caught. “Andraste’s knees. It’s Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Mei felt herself freeze in place. Aside from the Lord Seeker himself, Agent Pentaghast was the most renowned member of the Seekers of Truth, the division of the Templars that investigated Templar misconduct—and Templar collusion with mages. Her nightmare of Tranquility had included many imaginary Seekers conducting her trial and proclaiming her punishment. She breathed the icy air deep, forcing it into her lungs, taking comfort in the little details that distinguished reality from a demon’s simulacrum of it. Still, she couldn’t help glancing around to see if she might be able to run far enough to evade an arrest.

“Agent Trevelyan. Enchanter Surana.” Knight-Commander Greagoir gave them a mildly suspicious look. Mei just managed not to roll her eyes.  _ Don’t worry, Knight-Commander. I’m not his type. _

“Knight-Commander. Seeker,” they replied in ragged unison.

“We have been looking for you,” the Seeker said, her eyes examining Max’s face closely. “You do resemble your father.”

“And my uncles, and several of my cousins,” Max said with a genial smile—the expression Mei was coming to recognize as his “politics face.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Agent Pentaghast.”

“Indeed. And it is a pleasure for me to be the first to say: Congratulations, Knight-Captain Trevelyan.”

Max’s jaw dropped. “I—what?”

Mei was much less surprised. Though the Circle’s official version of events was more or less the story she had told Councilwoman Stannard, over the past few days the Templars had been putting careful spin on the tale, emphasizing just the right parts, until Max Trevelyan’s heroic stand in the Templar classroom and in the Harrowing Chamber had become the most important pieces of the story. It was inevitable, probably, that the Order would want to give credit to an Agent and not an Enchanter. But it rankled nonetheless.

“Your actions during the Circle crisis saved many lives and brought Uldred to his end,” the Seeker said gravely, looking at him with approval. “With the Knight-Captaincy vacant”—a delicate way of putting it, since Knight-Captain Leonard had died in Cullen’s prison—“you were the natural choice. You are someone this Circle can look to for guidance and strength.” 

“I didn’t—Maker. I played my part, or tried to, but I never would have even made it out of the Fade if not for M-… for the Detective,” Max said, shaking his head. “And it was Enchanter Surana who killed Uldred’s followers.”

The Seeker turned to her. “Yes, and I hope she will be among the leaders restoring this Circle as well.” Strange to say, she sounded almost sincere.

“Thank you, Seeker,” Mei replied. “But I regret to say I will not be here.” She drew a deep breath as the three Templars all turned their heads to look at her. “I have decided to surrender my license and leave the Circle.”

 

* * *

 

The work at Tabris Investigations was piling up. A few small cases had dropped into their laps, Angeline Clusky was calling twice a day to yell about her “outrageous” bill, and there was a shocking amount of paperwork to be filled out before the Guard would pay their consulting fee. Juliet knew she should be focusing on that last task, on finishing up the report while Naia checked boxes on forms and calculated the bill. The report was sitting there in her typewriter, missing only the last few sentences.

_ Don’t. Don’t do it. You know what will happen. Just wait until it has a chance to heal. _

But it was like an itch she couldn’t help scratching. With a guilty wince, Juliet reached for her magic.

She hissed as the magic flowed into her, bringing sharp, searing pain along with it, then groaned in frustration as it flowed back out again, oblivious to her attempts to weave it into a flame. It was like trying to hold water in her cupped hands—or more accurately, it was like trying to hold acid. It burned like hell and ran right through her fingers. Since the day at the Circle, she had been unable to cast a single real spell.

She dropped her head into her hands and tried not to scream. She could feel her magic there, ready to be used—but she couldn’t manipulate it, not the way she used to. She’d injured something while trying to control the power she’d drained from that generator. Maybe badly. Maybe badly enough that she would never be able to use her magic again.

She was on the edge of spiraling into panic when Naia knocked at her door. “I’ve got the bill and the forms. You can just staple this to your report when you’re done,” she said. Then she looked at Juliet’s face and winced. “Still nothing?”

Juliet shook her head. “Nothing. I keep thinking it might have gotten better. And then I try again, and it’s like … it’s like rubbing sandpaper on every nerve in my body.” Her shoulders slumped. “Naia. What if this is permanent?”

The elf shook her head. “It’s only been five days. And you can still sense your magic, still draw on it, right?”  
Juliet nodded.

“Then I think you may just need time.” A pause. “And maybe some help from another mage. Someone you can trust.”

“I’m not calling my father, Naia,” Juliet said bluntly. “He’ll just fret about what I got myself involved in, and then Bethany will panic, and then Carver will take it upon himself to drive up from Lothering to lecture me on how I’m worrying the whole family …” She sighed. “I love them. I do. I just … I don’t think I can deal with them right now.”

Naia let out an understanding sigh—and Juliet knew that she did, in fact, understand. Cyrion Tabris was an excellent father, but sometimes excellent fathers slept better when they were kept in the dark.

“What about someone else? Could you ask at the apostate bar?”

“That’s a good idea,” Juliet lied. She had no intention of going back there, but Naia wouldn’t let this go until she thought there was a plan of action. “Maybe a bit later. Drop the forms on my desk. I promise I’ll finish the report this afternoon.”

Naia’s mouth turned down a bit at one corner, but she didn’t push the point. “All right. I’m on stakeout this afternoon. Tell the Guard-Captain to put a rush on our check so I can tell Mrs. Clusky to shove it, OK?”

Juliet had to laugh at that. “Good plan. I’m sure Aveline Vallen will take that well.”

“Maybe Fenris can tell her for us,” Naia suggested with a wink as she walked out.

Juliet turned back to her typewriter, but instead of hitting its keys, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her forehead. 

_ Fenris. _

What was she going to say to him when she saw him again? Andraste’s ass, what  _ could  _ you say to someone who had been willing to die right along with you? Besides  _ I can’t believe you’d be so bloody stupid,  _ anyway. Maker’s breath, how could he have put himself in so much danger? 

With a frustrated shake of her head, Juliet sat up. She forced herself to begin typing, putting the final touches on the narrative she’d written about the events at the Circle. It was deliberately vague, but she’d mostly avoided lying outright, which seemed good.

_ I need to finish this. And then I’ll give it to the Guard and we can get paid. _

_ And then I need to talk to Fenris. _

 

* * *

 

“Well, I’ll say this: It’s the most interesting report I’ve ever read.”

Fenris grimaced as Guard-Captain Vallen arched an eyebrow at him across her desk. “I am uncertain if you mean that as a compliment.”

“It’s a compliment about your work on this case. And a complaint about the events you describe in your report.” She leaned back in her chair and drummed her fingers against her desk, her gaze sweeping her office as if the walls and shelves and filing cabinets might hold answers. “Maker. How could this have been allowed to happen?”

“We were fortunate that the crisis was limited to the Circle grounds. It seems clear that Uldred and his friends had plans to cause a much greater disturbance.” Fenris gritted his jaw. “Sometimes it seems that I shall find no end to the destructive powers of magic, or the selfishness of mages.”

“The mages made up the majority of those who died, Detective,” the Guard-Captain reminded him calmly, crossing her arms. “And one of them saved your life. At least according to this report.”

Fenris bristled defensively, but he knew she had a point. “There were many within that Circle who would not join Uldred and paid a terrible price for resisting him,” he allowed. “And I am aware of what I owe to Enchanter Surana.” 

_ My life. And Hawke’s. _

The Guard-Captain shook her head. “Detective. May I speak frankly?”

“I was unaware that you were not,” Fenris said with an arched eyebrow.

Vallen barked out an amused laugh. “Fair enough. I am always frank, but perhaps not always … forthcoming. I don’t like politics interfering in my Guard. But I have Councilwoman Stannard calling me every day to find out what I plan to do about the apostates who escaped from the Circle. And now I’ve got Councilman Mac Tir’s office calling me to discuss the same thing.” She locked her eyes onto his. “What they want, quite clearly, is for you to be relieved of your duties on the alienage task force. Stannard wants a new task force, this one dedicated to magical crime.”

Fenris leaned back in his chair, blinking. “I would think that might step on the Templars’ toes.”

“Councilwoman Stannard says that the Denerim Templars have shown themselves to be incompetent, and that steps must be taken to protect this city that do not rely on their organization.” She chuckled, with little humor in the sound. “I believe I got those bits verbatim. She was quite emphatic.”

Fenris grimaced sympathetically.

“For now, I see no need for a task force,” the Guard-Captain continued. “But I seem to have little choice but to allow you to resume your former duties. Congratulations, Detective. You are officially relieved of your responsibilities on the alienage task force.”

Fenris felt his lips part in surprise. “The alienage task force is at an end? I thought it was doing good work—though I know it is early yet.”

For some reason that Fenris didn’t quite understand, Guard-Captain Vallen smiled approvingly at the question, as if he had just passed a test. “No, no. The task force will continue, and I would appreciate your recommendation on its new leadership.”

“Donnic Hendyr,” Fenris replied immediately. “He is overdue for a promotion to Detective, and has done well connecting with victims and witnesses. I would also recommend keeping Tabris Investigations on retainer as consultants.” There were only a handful of elves in the Guard, and many of them came from outside Denerim. Naia’s connections and reputation would almost certainly prove useful in the future.

“Hendyr, eh? I’ll keep that name in mind. And Tabris as well.” The Guard-Captain jotted something down in the margins of his report, then met his eyes again. “You do good work for the Guard, Detective. But do not let recent events, or pressure from the Council, blind you to the law—or to what this city needs. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely, Guard-Captain.” Fenris inclined his head respectfully. Then something occurred to him. “I would not wish you to think that I asked the Councilwoman for her intervention. I did not.”

Aveline Vallen considered that for a moment, then nodded. “I believe you, Detective,” she assured him seriously. “And since we are speaking frankly: Watch your back with the Councilwoman. She is the most single-minded person I have ever met, and that is  _ not _ intended as a compliment. The moment she thinks you cannot or will not further her goals, she will become your enemy.”

Fenris wanted to defend Meredith, but the Guard-Captain’s words rang uncomfortably true. The Councilwoman had helped him—but always with an eye towards a larger goal. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now then. If you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting in a moment.”

Fenris nodded and stood to leave, but as he turned away, the Guard-Captain suddenly spoke. “Detective? How did Alistair Guerrin handle himself in the Circle?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “He kept his wits about him and fought well. Why?”

Aveline Vallen smiled at him. “Simple curiosity, naturally.”

 

* * *

 

For the second time in a week, Alistair found himself sitting in a Guard interrogation room, staring nervously at the one-way glass. He’d been interviewed several times about the events at the Circle, but always in a comfortable, sunlit room, usually with a glass of water by his side. He was a witness and arguably a victim, not a suspect.

So why did  _ this  _ meeting require such a grim setting?

He straightened in his chair as the door opened, trying to hide his unease. But one look at the person walking in tripled his nerves.

“Um. Hi. I mean, Guard-Captain. Hello.”

Aveline Vallen nodded in reply and took the seat opposite his. Once again, her Guard uniform was neat as a pin, her strong features set in a stern expression. She set a yellow folder on the table in front of her with a soft  _ thwap _ . “Mr. Guerrin. A very interesting document crossed my desk this morning.”

Alistair swallowed nervously. “Was it Naia’s invoice? Mine had an awful lot of miscellaneous expenses. I’ve been meaning to call her about that.”  _ Babbling. Again. Maker, why can I never stop myself? _

The Guard-Captain gave him a flat look and flipped the folder open. Alistair knew what it had to contain, but he still winced when he saw it there: his application to join the Denerim Guard.

“Oh. Right. That.”

Guard-Captain Vallen placed both elbows on the table and eyed him seriously. “You did not wish to join the Templars, but you think the Guard will suit you?”

“I. Um. The Templars—what they do is very, um, specialized. I want—” Alistair took a deep breath to stop himself from babbling further. How could he explain this? Despite Varric’s warning, the events at the Circle had been playing in his head on a repeat loop for the past five days. His mother—a former Grey Warden, a leader of mages, a brave woman—had died protecting him. He couldn’t just walk back behind a bar after that. But he also knew that rejoining the Templars was not his path.

“The Templars stay behind Circle walls unless illegal magic is involved. The Guard is out in the city every day, trying to help,” he said finally. “I thought my Templar training might be useful?”

“It would be. In fact, your graduation from the Templar academy would enable you to skip much of our own training program.” She gave him a considering look. “Eamon Guerrin must be pleased to see his son apply to public service.”

“Eamon doesn’t know.” The words came out in a rush; Alistair paused to slow himself down. “To tell you the truth I don’t know if he’d complain about me doing something dangerous, or say he’s glad I stopped wasting my life as a bartender. But this isn’t about him.” He met the Guard-Captain’s focused gaze and tried to look trustworthy. “If you’re worried I’ll use him to pull strings for me, get me soft assignments or fast promotions, I won’t. All I want—all I want is to help.” 

The Guard-Captain nodded slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was oddly gentle. “The Circle was a grim scene.”

“Yeah,” Alistair agreed softly. 

For a moment he thought the Guard-Captain would tell him no—that he was too young, or too connected, or too recently traumatized. Instead, she offered him her hand.

“Welcome aboard, Guardsman. You start on Monday.”

 

* * *

 

_ I ought to celebrate. _

Fenris’s mind was spinning as he descended the stairs, making the return trip to his desk. He’d gotten what he wanted—hadn’t he? The task force was no longer his concern, and he was free to return to his usual work. Not only free, encouraged. And in the wake of the disaster at the Circle there would be more apostates in Denerim than ever, more reasons for him to watch for magic and its abuses.

And yet there was discomfort mixed with the relief. He was reassigned, true, but largely because two Council members had insisted upon it. Politics were at play behind the scenes and Fenris knew he was, at best, a pawn in them. It put his teeth on edge. And despite all of his wishing to get off that blasted task force, now that it was no longer his business, he was worried about its future—even though Donnic was in truth far better suited to its management than he was, elf or no.

_ Why is nothing ever simple? _

As if to answer his question—or mock him for asking it—when Fenris turned the corner into the detectives’ office, Hawke was perched on the edge of his desk.

She didn’t see him immediately. He’d come through the back door, the one leading directly into the stairwell rather than into the hallway, and she was looking to the front of the room. He stopped short, staring at her, battling competing urges. Part of him wanted to rush to her. The other part wanted to slink quietly back into the stairs and sneak outside. Hawke was patient, but not infinitely so; it would not be long before she ceased waiting and went on her way.

Perhaps he ought to let her.

Naia’s pert, direct voice cut through his ruminations.  _ One of these days I am going to lose my patience and lock the two of you in a room together. _

_ Fasta vas. I have avoided this too long. _

Before he could lose his nerve, he cleared his throat and called, “Hawke.”

Her head turned, sending her hair swinging around her shoulders. She looked much improved. Her creamy brown skin no longer looked ashen, and the burn on her forehead was all but healed. The wry smile curving her lips was so wonderfully familiar that Fenris’s heart skipped a beat. “Hey, Fenris. I was just dropping off our bill and thought I’d say hi.”

“It’s good to see you. I was just about to eat lunch,” he told her as he approached the desk. 

Hawke arched a skeptical eyebrow at that. “Meaning you were going to buy a sandwich at the gas station and eat it in your car on the way to a case while complaining about how terrible it is?”

Fenris chuckled. “Are my dining habits really so predictable?”

“What do you think?”

Fenris’s heart pounded as he forced out his next words. “I could be persuaded to change them, and take my lunch in a better setting, if you were interested in joining me.”

He’d phrased it casually, but the uncertainty in his voice gave him away. Hawke’s lips parted in surprise. “I—yeah. I’d like that. Come on, I’ll help you find a lunch spot that doesn’t also sell hubcaps.”

*

Snow was falling by the time Fenris and Hawke left the building. At first Hawke winced, imagining the disaster that her trip back home was going to be, but she soon related. It wasn’t a storm, just soft flakes floating down from the sky—one of those rare, pretty snows that Bethany had loved watching from their window in Lothering.

_ If we were different people, this might be quite romantic,  _ she thought with a sideways glance at Fenris. He had been quiet since leaving the Guard building—not that Hawke had broken the silence either. He sensed her gaze and looked back at her; his eyes fell onto a little scorched patch on the shoulder of her leather jacket, a scar from the near-disaster at the Circle.

“How have you been?” he asked abruptly.

Hawke shrugged. “I—what I did was more dangerous than I realized at the time. But I’m all right.” She winced a bit at the lie. But she didn’t know how he would react to learning she’d damaged her magic. Would he hate the fact that she’d been hurt? Or would she see relief in those bright green eyes? 

“Why did you stay?” she blurted. “At the Circle. I couldn’t control that power and you knew it. You must have. The entire room was coming to pieces around us.”

“I could not leave you again,” he replied simply.

“Fenris, that makes no  _ sense. _ ” Hawke shook her head; a few snowflakes fell from her hair onto her skin, melting into little dots of water. “You could have died. You can’t possibly think you owe me that just because we spent one night together and it didn’t end well.”

The words came out angry, confused, accusatory, and Hawke thought he might walk away from her. But he simply walked along in silence. 

It was another half block before he spoke. “I owed it to myself, not to you.” He drew in a breath and then blew it out through his mouth, creating a puff of steam amidst the cold air. “I—I regret leaving you that night. I regret what I said to you. I regret not telling you the real reason that I left.” He shook his head. “I have told you, I think, that I remember nothing before the moment I awoke in Danarius’s laboratory.”

Hawke nodded silently, though she didn’t really see how this might relate.

“That is no longer entirely true. Bits and pieces have come back to me over the past three years.” He drew in a breath. “The night we spent together—that was when it started. Afterwards, for a moment, I remembered everything. My childhood. A family. My masters before Danarius. Sights and sounds and scents. For a moment it was all there. And then it was gone. I panicked, and I left.”

Hawke’s mouth dropped open. “Maker, Fenris. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At the time, I didn’t have the words—I was too overwhelmed. It was too much. And then afterwards, I was too ashamed of what I said to you.” The sentence ended in a near-whisper, his silken baritone as soft and unsure as she’d ever heard it. “Hawke. Do you think—might you be able to forgive me? These past weeks, I—it has been good to see you again. You were my first friend in the Guard. I would like to be your friend once more, if you would have me.”

Fenris’s face was tense with worry; she could see what it had cost him to ask her that. Hawke turned the words over in her mind, trying to figure out how to respond.

_ It’s my turn to be brave, I think. _

“I think—I might like that. One day. But Fenris …” She swallowed hard. “Right now I don’t think I want to be your friend. I want—Maker help me. I still want what we had that night.” She felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment, though she never, ever blushed. “But if that’s not what you want, I understand, it’s been years. I just might need some time …”

That was as far as she got before Fenris caught her face in his hands and kissed her.

He all but dove into that kiss, his mouth crashing hungrily against hers. Hawke's heart leapt, and she closed her eyes and poured everything she’d been feeling into kissing him back. Fenris wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Hawke twined her arms around him in return, her body molding to his as easily as if it had been three hours, not three years.

They kissed on the sidewalk with snow falling around them, lost in each other, all plans for lunch forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 29 should post on Thursday ... meaning this is almost done!!


	29. Chapter 29

_Two days later_

The first forty-eight hours after Max’s promotion sped by in a rush that left him vaguely dizzy. Cassandra Pentaghast brought a small army of investigators with her to untangle the events at the Denerim Circle. Some of them were Agent Pentaghast’s fellow Seekers; others did not seem to be part of the Templar hierarchy at all. A red-haired Orlesian named Leliana asked particularly pressing questions, many of them about what he’d noticed before the crisis and why he’d apparently noticed so little. Max got the impression that she did not entirely approve of his elevation to Knight-Captain.

“I am an independent counsel,” she told Max when he asked about her own rank and affiliation.

“Which means?”

“I offer counsel. Independently.” She gave him a vague, lovely smile that made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He reminded himself to ask his father and uncles if they knew anything about an Orlesian named Leliana.

Not all of Agent Pentaghast’s companions were terrifying, however. One afternoon, Max found himself standing in front of a dwarven scientist named Dagna who had called him in to discuss Uldred’s machine. Most people would have taken one look at the destroyed laboratory and insisted on a better workspace. Dagna had the entire thing tented over and worked right there in the wreckage, cold be damned.

“It was the only way to preserve the evidence,” she explained to Max as he pulled his hat down over his ears. Dagna herself was wrapped in warm knits and furs; he could not even tell the color of her hair. Her hazel eyes were bright and intelligent in her freckled face, and Max could tell that despite her apparent youth, he was dealing with an extraordinary mind.

“I can’t believe they smashed this thing up.” She shook her head with something close to regret. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I think I agree with the vandals,” Max said dryly. “This thing was a monstrosity.”

“OK, OK, yes, it’s a monstrosity. But it’s an _interesting_ monstrosity.” Dagna reached for a plastic bag, neatly tagged and labeled and sitting on a cleared lab bench. “In this condition I don’t think I’ll be able to figure out exactly how it worked or where it came from. But look here. Runes—some elven, some Tevene.”

Max took the bag gingerly, as if its contents might burn him. Sure enough, the glass was etched all over with symbols.

“I’ve seen these used before on magical artifacts, but never in combination.” Dagna’s eyes were alight. “This machine represents a new development in magical technology. And I don’t think it was built at the Circle.”

Max looked up from the shard. “What?”

“I mean, _look_ at it. Or what’s left of it. It’s just too _big._ Where could Uldred have been hiding something like this?” Dagna shook her head. “My working theory is that someone delivered its parts to the Circle after Uldred took control.”

“Tevinter magisters?” Max asked, his eyebrows climbing half his forehead in shock.

“Maybe. Or ambitious local apostates,” Dagna theorized. “Agent Pentaghast tells me that the security tapes were wiped beyond recovery. We may never know, unless we catch some of Uldred’s accomplices.”

“Or unless they make another attempt.” Max ran a hand over his face. “So you’re saying that hostile outside agents have had contact with mages in this Circle. Um. Shit.”

His first instinct was to limit field assignments, to keep the mages in the Circle grounds and away from compromising influences. But then he remembered Mei—the most rule-abiding mage he knew—lighting into him, her eyes filled with repressed fury as she explained what it was like to be a prisoner in this place. The surviving Circle residents, furthermore, were unlikely to be Uldred’s allies, or to know anything about who had brought the machine to this Circle. _Restricting them further might just create more Uldreds._

“Dagna,” he said seriously. “I know you’ll need to report that information to Agent Pentaghast. But beyond that, I’d like it kept between us.” _I’m going to need to investigate this._

Dagna gave him a sharp little nod. “Understood, Knight-Captain. I’ll report back when and if I know more.”

 

* * *

 

Mei touched tentative fingertips to the mirror in her room. She was almost surprised when she saw her hand reflected, saw her motions reversed and shown back to her, because she barely recognized her own face.

Her eyes were puffy from crying, the flesh around them red and tender. The swelling changed the proportions of her face and made her jaw and chin seem comically narrow. More than once in the past two days she had felt as if she might die.

_But I am still here. I am still standing._

Defiantly, she turned away from the stranger in the mirror and turned her attention to the duffel bag on the bed—a deflated little canvas sack about as long as her pillow. There hadn’t been much to pack. When a mage left, the Circle issued them a winter coat, three t-shirts—one with long sleeves—and two pairs of grey sweatpants. Since Mei was wearing the long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants and was holding the coat, that left only two shirts and one pair of paints in the bag, along with miscellaneous undershirts, bras, underwear, and socks.

Just to give herself something to do, she checked to make sure she’d remembered her toothbrush and her second pair of shoes, though she knew she had. There hadn’t been many personal items to pack away. She’d given _Guarded Hearts_ to a teenaged apprentice, figuring she could buy a copy freely once she was out of the Circle.

_If I find a job._

_One thing at a time._

A soft knock on her door startled her out of her thoughts. “Come in?” she called quietly.

For a moment, one stupid moment, she hoped it would be Cullen. But of course it was Max, because it was time.

“I’m here to drive you into town,” he said. He did his best to conceal a wince when he looked at her swollen face, but didn’t entirely succeed.

Mei shook her head. “You don’t need to do that. There’s a bus …”

“I’m here to drive you into town,” he repeated stubbornly. “Any town. Any destination you want. I hear Highever’s nice.”

In spite of everything, Mei laughed. “I—thanks, Max.”

He looked at her thin little bag, then back at her. “Mei. Are you sure this is what you want? I know—I know Cullen’s in a bad place. But this is your home too.”

Mei drew in a deep breath. “It’s not, Max,” she said softly. “I don’t know what home feels like, exactly. But this isn’t it. Not for me.”

*

Mei gave Max the address she’d looked up in the phone book. Max navigated expertly, even in the alienage. Perhaps that should not have been a surprise; Denerim’s poorest district was a popular refuge for apostates looking to evade Templars. Mei wondered if other apostates had taken the same step she would or if they mostly headed to the apostate bar, the center of Denerim’s mage underground.

She might go there one day, once she was settled, once the idea of running into other former Circle mages didn’t fill her with dread. Right now she just needed to be … away. Anonymous.

“Max?” she asked suddenly, turning away from the view of Denerim outside the passenger window. “Why didn’t you turn Hawke in?”

Max raised his eyebrows. “That brain of yours never turns off, does it?” He frowned thoughtfully. “I—well, for one thing, I didn’t want to rat you out as a liar.”

Mei grimaced. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that in front of Meredith. Sorry.”

“Nah, I’m glad you did. I wouldn’t have come up with a cover story as quickly as you. Hawke—I mean, wow. All of them risked their lives to help us, but she took the biggest risk of all.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about the Circle feeling like a prison to the mages. Dragging her into the Circle seemed like a crappy way to repay her.”

Mei smiled faintly. “I’m glad they made you Knight-Captain.” She knew the Circles needed more drastic change than one Knight-Captain who thought there might be room in the world for magic-using apostates, but it couldn’t hurt as a start.

“That makes one of us. Maybe just one person, period.” Max grimaced. “Did their independent counsel visit you, by the way?”

“Who, Leliana?” Mei asked, surprised by his tone. “She did. She made me tea when she saw I’d been crying. She was very nice.”

“Maker, are you serious? She’s so terrifying I thought I might faint dead on the floor of my new office,” Max spluttered.

Mei chuckled at the image. “And Dagna? Did she frighten you as well?” she teased.

Max drew a breath. “No. But that reminds me. She thinks Uldred may have had allies on the outside—people who helped bring that machine into the Circle. My money’s on magisters, not local apostates, but … it seems like something you should know out here.”

 _Uldred’s allies._ Mei’s fingers tightened into fists. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ll watch my back.”

A sign down the block drew her attention. “There. That’s it. Helping Hands Shelter.”

Max slowed the car, preparing to stop by the curb. He gave the little shelter a skeptical look. It was a three-story house, older and prettily gabled, sitting amidst gas stations and cinder-block commercial buildings; next door was a laundromat, steam rising from its roof in fluffy white columns. The shelter itself was clean and looked welcoming, its yellow paint bright in the winter light, but Mei could see that one of its windows had recently been broken and boarded up.

“Are you sure about this neighborhood?”

Mei decided to evade the question. “This place gives elves somewhere to stay. I won’t be here long. Just—just until I find my feet.”

“Right. About that.” Max turned off the engine and looked like he was wrestling with a decision. Finally, without meeting her eyes, he pulled an envelope from his pocket, a thick one stretched to its limits with the contents. “I know this is kind of weird. But please don’t tell me you can’t take this. We owe you way more than what’s in there.”

Mei felt a lump form in her throat as she accepted the envelope. “I won’t. Thanks, Max.”

Impulsively, she leaned over to give him a hug. It was an awkward one, since she had to lean over the gear shift, but sincere, and Max returned it in kind.

“Call me when you’re settled. I’ll bring you a house plant,” he said as she closed the car door.

She leaned down to smile back at him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The stairs to Helping Hands creaked a bit as Mei climbed them. Inside, she could hear shouts—children, probably, running around the ground floor. _Maker. What if they don’t have any beds?_

She hitched her sad little bag higher on her shoulder and forced herself to keep going. _Then I’ll find someplace that does. One thing at a time._

She rang the bell and waited, listening to the shouts of the children inside. She heard someone step to the door, and sensed that they were looking through the peephole; then, it opened.

A cream-skinned, red-haired elf with full lips and a no-nonsense expression looked her up and down. Mei licked her lips; they suddenly felt dry. “Um. Hi. I need a place to stay?”

“You’re in the right place, then,” the woman said with a little smile as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Shianni. We’ve got some beds, if you’re OK with a ten o’clock curfew and a few other house rules.”

The mention of rules made Mei cringe silently; it seemed too much like the Circle. But she supposed it was necessary. “I’ll obey whatever you need.”

“Then come on in.” Shianni stepped back, pulling the door with her. Mei got a good view of a main floor covered in toys and battered furniture; one elven child, barefoot despite the cold, ran shrieking down the hallway towards them, only to turn and run back when she saw Shianni.

“I’m not running!” the little girl yelled as she sprinted away.

Shianni laughed affectionately. “Oh. I hope you’re all right with a rousing game of Tag being played at all hours.”

Mei smiled a little at that. “That … sounds just fine, actually.”

She clutched her bag tight and stepped inside.

 

* * *

 

Naia was filling out a new invoice when she heard Juliet shout, "Maker's balls, will you just shut up!"

Instinctively, Naia spring from her office chair and ran to find out what was wrong. She found Juliet on the phone, her expression furious. She was clutching the receiver in one hand and had pulled it away from her ear, making sure she could not hear what the other person was saying. “I am not going to argue with you about this petty shit any more," she snapped, enunciating each word as if she were biting it off at the end. "Pay or don’t pay. But if you don’t, you’ll be hearing from our lawyer, and I’ll make sure no other agency in town takes one of your moronic, batshit cases again.” To punctuate the threat, she slammed the received down hard enough to make the phone shake and ring.

Naia winced. “Mrs. Clusky still doesn’t want to pay up?”

“No,” Juliet spat, dropping her head into her hands. “Andraste's ass. She’ll probably never pay now. I just—I’ve had it with that woman. I’ve had it.” She snorted. “At least I didn’t threaten to burn her alive, since I can’t even do that any more.”

Naia chewed her lip a bit. She’d seen Juliet mad before, but unlike Naia, she was usually good at keeping her cool about the petty stuff. “Your magic isn’t getting better, is it.”

Juliet dropped her hands and glared at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Juliet, you need …”

“You don’t know what I need,” her friend snapped. “If you happen to know someone who can fix me, by all means, bring them in. But otherwise would you keep your unsolicited advice to yourself, just for once?”

Naia raised her hands in surrender, trying to hide the fact that the words stung. Juliet could tell anyway, though. She grimaced and shook her head. “Sorry. It’s just—it’s a lousy day.”

“It’s fine.” Naia tried to look cheerful. “Hey, Alistair asked if we could come to the Dockside tonight around eight. He said to tell you Fenris was welcome, and that he’d unplugged the karaoke machine.” She punctuated this with a pout.

Juliet forced a laugh. “Sounds great. Hopefully Fenris will think so too.”

“All right. I’m going to go drop off our nice fat Guard payout at the bank so that we can forget Mrs. Clusky ever existed.”

That idea actually made Juliet perk up a bit. “Bring me back a printout of our new balance?”

“Absolutely,” Naia promised.

_But first I’m calling for backup. And then we’ll have one more stop to make._

*

After depositing the Guard’s check and getting printouts of their bank balance—pleasantly large between Alistair’s payment and the Guard consulting fees—Naia met Zevran outside her bank.

The former assassin gave her a cheeky smile as she approached. “So. Varric was busy?”

“He’s doing something for his family’s business. Besides, this is a two-elf job,” Naia told him.

Twenty minutes later, the pair stepped up to the door of Denerim’s secret apostate bar. Naia knocked firmly, trying not to be nervous. She had wondered if the bar would look more welcoming up close. It did not.

The narrow steel window opened slowly, with an unpleasant little _screech._ A pair of cloudy eyes glared out at them. “Members only.”

“Last time you asked for a password,” Zevran said helpfully.

He rolled his eyes. “Password.”

“Can’t give you one. We’re not mages,” Naia told him. “But we don’t need to come in. We need to see Anders. He still here?”

“We don’t talk about our members,” the voice on the other side of the door informed her.

“That’s fine.” Naia flashed him her most cheerful smile. “You can just give him a message: Naia Tabris is here and needs to see him.”

“Do I sound like a messenger, elf?” the man sneered.

Zevran’s eyes grew cold; the expression on his face made the doorman blink nervously. _Maker, he’s scary when he wants to be._

Naia let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Don’t be a messenger. But until you tell us how to find him, we’re just going to sit right there on those steps.” She pointed to the icy, crooked row of stairs leading down to this basement door. “Now, one of two things will happen. You’ll point us to Anders and we’ll go away, or we’ll wait there until someone—probably the Guard—takes an interest in two loitering elves, and by extension, an interest in the rat trap where they’re loitering.” She shrugged. “In my experience that takes about an hour. Thirty minutes if the Guard is bored.”

The viewing window snapped shut. With a shrug, Naia sat down on the steps to wait. Zevran stood in front of her, his arms crossed and his eyes firmly on the street behind them.

“Do you think he is still in the city?” the Antivan asked quietly.

“The Templars have been watching the bus stations and major roads. If it were me, I’d lay low until they gave up,” Naia murmured back.

It took only fifteen minutes before the door opened, revealing not the mysterious doorman, but Anders himself. “Andraste’s knickers. What is _wrong_ with you?” the blonde mage hissed, his eyes darting around the street.

Naia met his eyes calmly as she stood. “Hawke needs your help.”

*

Marcus watched from the window of his room as Anders left with the pair of elves. He and his fellow apostate had left the Circle together, but the other mage had given him a wide berth ever since. At first Marcus resented the implied judgment. Now, however, he was coming to see Anders’ hostility as a benefit. A selfish bastard like him probably wouldn’t understand what had to come next.

With Anders evicted from his usual perch at the bar, Marcus descended into the basement to order a drink. Greta, a pretty blonde regular, was sitting there alone for once, reading a newspaper and scowling.

“You read this?” she asked him as he sat down.

Marcus looked over at the headline. _Councilwoman Stannard calls for new restrictions on mages._ It was accompanied by a picture of Agent Max Trevelyan, being billed as the hero of the Circle crisis. Marcus glared at it, as if the real Max Trevelyan might feel the weight of his disgust.

“Not yet,” he said. “Looks … revolting.”

“Those fuckin’ idiots,” Greta snarled. “Why did they have to go and kill the Grand Enchanter? She was on our side!”

“That’s not how it happened,” Marcus said immediately. “I was there. Believe me. The Templars killed the Grand Enchanter. All of this abomination stuff—it’s their cover-up for her murder.” He’d been testing this story out on bar patrons whenever Anders was out of earshot. Some people rolled their eyes and found a reason to end the conversation, but so far, most mages seemed ready to believe this slightly altered version of events.

Greta was certainly interested; she leaned forward, her eyes widened and her mouth rounded in a little ‘o.’ “Really?”

“Really,” Marcus assured her, taking a seat next to hers. “I’ll tell you what happened from the beginning.”

_Maybe something good can come out of this mess after all._

 

* * *

 

One look at Hawke’s face told Anders that finding him had not been her idea. Her eyes widened in surprise when he entered the office and she glared across her desk at Naia.

The elf just shrugged and turned her palms up sheepishly. “You said if I knew anyone …”

Anders thought Hawke might throw him out on his ear. But then she met his eyes, and her face was filled with worry.

The expression was unexpected and unsettling. The last time he’d seen Hawke she had seemed like magic incarnate—a goddess raining vengeance and destruction down on the Circle’s abominations. It felt almost wrong to see her in her ordinary little office, clearly sleepless and stressed, looking at him as if he might be her only hope. He’d come with Naia largely unwillingly—given what he knew about the elf, it had seemed like the path of least resistance—but Hawke was the reason he was free. Whatever was wrong, he owed it to her to at least try to help.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “Your friend was a little vague, but she said you need a healer’s consult?”

Hawke nodded. “Come on in. Close the door behind you.”

As Hawke explained the problem, Anders rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them before he examined her. He thought he had a good sense of what had happened, but it was hard to tell just how bad it was without delving deeper. Hawke struck him as the kind of person who under-sold her injuries.

“Hold still. This is going to feel a little strange.” Anders pressed the first two fingers of each hand to Hawke’s temples. He closed his eyes and let his magic wash into her, seeking out the network of chakras where she held and manipulated mana. What he found made him wince. He was reminded of a Templar he’d treated once; the man had jumped out of a moving car to avoid a fireball and scraped half the skin off his body rolling against the pavement. His skin was a bloody, stiff, scabbed mess by the time Anders saw him—not unlike Hawke’s chakras now.

“That bad, huh?”

Hawke’s voice was even, almost casual, but the way her heartbeat sped up told Anders that the calm was fake. “Give me a minute,” he said quietly.

Tentatively, he pushed a little tendril of magic into one of the chakras. He felt it shiver, resisting him, but as he worked, it responded. The raw, scraped spots smoothed and began to heal. _Good. That’s good._

He opened his eyes and stepped back. “You’ll be able to use your magic again,” he said first, since he knew that was what she wanted most to know. “But you’ve got some serious damage. I’ve seen things like this before, usually among apprentices who get stupid with sharing their magic. This is by far the worst case I’ve ever seen, though. I think you’ll have full use of your magic again in six months.”

“Six _months_?” Hawke gasped.

Anders nodded. It might be sooner, but he thought it was usually best to give the worst-case scenario. “And that’s if you refrain from casting entirely. _And_ if you see a good healer once a week.”

“Know anyone?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Sure, sure. I do you a favor and this is how you repay me, by slighting my skills.” Anders lay a hand over his heart. “I am wounded. Deeply.”

“I could pay.”

That brought Anders up short. “I—wow.” He stepped back and crossed his arms. “I won’t lie, I could use work. But … I don’t know. It feels wrong. You’re the reason I got to break my phylactery _and_ wasn’t eaten by abominations.”

“I don’t think they were eating people, if that makes a difference.” Hawke leaned back in her chair. “Six months, huh?” She still looked a little thrown by the timeline. “Were you planning to stay in town long?”

Anders shrugged. “Denerim’s got a nice, low-key apostate scene that’s mostly people trying to drink beer and stay out of trouble. I don’t see why not.”

“All right. You’ve got yourself a patient.” She stuck out her hand. “What do I owe you for today?”

“We’ll call it a free consultation,” Anders said wryly as they shook. “Let’s talk rates next week. Same time, same place?”

“Works for me.” She paused and looked at him consideringly. “Naia and I are headed out for drinks in a bit. Want to join us?”

“I would. But Naia mentioned you’re dating that scary elven Detective.” He couldn’t help an indignant little thought at the idea of an apostate dating Detective Fenris Leto. He could still see the expression on the Detective’s face as he’d offered his card all those weeks ago—like he was looking at his worst enemy, though he’d barely known Anders a minute. _What does she see in him?_ “So I think I’ll take my Circle-escapee self back home.”

Hawke grimaced, but didn’t argue with him. “Maybe some other night, then.”

“Maybe,” Anders agreed. “Otherwise, see you next week.”

 

* * *

 

Varric was the first to arrive at the Dockside that night—except for Alistair, of course. It was a weekend, but not a karaoke night; the bar was busier than usual but far from crowded. Varric claimed his whiskey from their friend and went to stake out a pair of tables. As he waited, he read the newspaper he’d brought with him. He soon wished he’d left the thing at home. The day’s news was not relaxing reading.

To his surprise, Naia was the next to arrive, walking through the door at just seven minutes after eight. Zevran trailed in her wake, his expression mischievous as he finished telling her a joke. Varric couldn’t hear the punch line, but it made Naia laugh.

He shook his head and took a sip of his single-malt. _Guess the assassin is going to be sticking around for a while._ He still hadn’t quite put his finger on how Naia did it—how she found allies and friends in the most unlikely people she met.

Naia sat down with a _thump,_ shrugging her coat onto the back of the chair _._ “Fenris called. He’s running late but he’s going to pick up Hawke on his way. She told us to go ahead.”

“It seems they have finally succumbed to each others’ charms, then?” Zevran asked as he hung his own coat over a chair.

“Yeah. About that.” Varric looked over at Naia seriously. “Are we sure it’s a good idea for Hawke to date that guy? Brooding, hates magic, accurately described by a certain talented author as an angsty porcupine?”

There was a cocktail napkin lying on one of the tables. Naia pulled it towards her and began running her fingers over its edges. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” she admitted.

“Come to any conclusions?”

She shrugged. “They’re crazy about each other. What else are they supposed to do?”

Varric rested his elbows on the table and stared down at his drink. “Crazy about each other doesn’t always mean happily-ever-after, Sparks.”

Across the table, Zevran’s expression sobered, but he said nothing.

Naia sighed. “Yeah. I know. But I think maybe they’ve got to try.”

*

Juliet and Fenris walked through the door of the Dockside at about twenty minutes past eight. The walk over had been a pleasant sort of torture. She was at that stage in a new relationship where she was profoundly aware of exactly where he was at all times. She kept glancing over, almost sure that he would be gone, that their kiss had been some sort of strange hallucination. But he was always right where she sensed him, and he was usually looking at her too.

“You don’t have to hold the door for me,” she said as he pushed it open.

“I enjoy the view,” he murmured back.

 _Maker, that voice._ She arched an eyebrow at him playfully. “You’re trying to make this take-it-slow thing hard, aren’t you?”

The left side of his mouth curved up. “Perish the thought.”

Naia was the first to spot them; she gave an enthusiastic wave, calling them over to a pair of round tables that they’d awkwardly pulled together. Juliet waved back and started to head to the bar to order drinks—but stopped short when she saw Alistair emerge from behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey and several glasses in his hands.

Juliet and Fenris joined the table as Alistair set the items down. “I hope you’re all honored to witness this historic moment. My last, final, and best drink poured as a bartender,” he announced, pulling off his black apron with a flourish. “I. Um. The Guard accepted my application. I start tomorrow.”

“Alistair!” Naia exclaimed, delighted. “You didn’t tell us you wanted to be a Guardsman.”

“To be honest I thought they might reject me. And then point and laugh at me. Seemed safer not to say anything until I’d heard.” He glanced somewhat sheepishly over at Fenris.

The Detective poured himself a shot of whiskey and raised it in a toast. “Welcome. I will be glad to see an almost-Templar among our ranks after the events at the Circle.”

“I’m guessing they won’t assign me to illegal magic right away. Probably stolen bicycles and missing kittens first,” Alistair said wryly. “But thanks.”

“That’s great, Alistair,” Juliet said sincerely. Being a Guardswoman hadn’t been for her, but Alistair reminded her of Donnic in all of the best ways. The Guard would be lucky to have him, and so would Denerim.

“Good for you, kid,” Varric added, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. His gaze fell to the newspaper at his elbow as he sat back. Despite herself, Juliet couldn’t resist reading over his shoulder.

_Councilwoman Stannard calls for new restrictions on mages._

She couldn’t make out the full article, but the gist was clear enough. If Stannard got her way, no more being a legal apostate so long as you didn’t use your magic. Meredith wanted all mages in a Circle, or something like it.

Varric saw her looking and grimaced. “You’ve been following this?”

Juliet nodded.

Naia pulled the newspaper towards her; her face fell as she took in the news. “Ugh.”

Fenris crossed his arms. “I am not unsympathetic to the idea that more mages ought to be under the Circle’s supervision,” he said, in a tremendous understatement. Juliet bristled—but then he followed with, “However, I would not like to see the principle so broadly applied as the Councilwoman suggests.”

She felt herself relax a bit. _That’s progress, maybe?_

“Yeah, let’s take a bunch of mages who don’t want to live in a Circle and lock them inside one with the next Uldred. No way that could go wrong,” Alistair shot back. He grimaced. “Wonder how Eamon’s going to vote on something like this. He’ll vote no. I think.”

A gloom settled over their little group as they silently handed the newspaper around.

“All right. Too much moping at this table,” Juliet announced. “You’re forcing my hand.”

She knocked back the rest of her glass of whiskey in a single swallow, pushed back her chair, and headed straight for the karaoke machine.

Alistair had unplugged it, as promised, so she stuck its plug back into the socket. When it whirred to life, she stepped behind the microphone and began scrolling through her options. The fifth choice was a fast, perky pop hit from a few years back, one of Naia’s favorites. Since she knew at least half the words Juliet took a breath and hit _play_.

From the table, Naia clapped and whooped in delight. “I can’t believe it!”

Juliet waved at her sheepishly as the first notes played.

She knew as soon as the opening drums started that she couldn’t keep up with this for long. Her husky alto was no match for the song’s high notes. But before she’d finished the first phrase, Naia was there at her side. She wrapped her arm around Juliet’s waist and leaned in to share the microphone, her cheerful soprano easily matching the diva’s range. Juliet slung an arm around Naia’s shoulders and began singing the backup vocals, grinning with a mix of embarrassment and pride as she watched the bar’s other patrons stare at them in confusion.

At the table, Alistair folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor, pinning it carefully under the leg of his chair. Varric crossed his arms and leaned back, a fond grin on his face as he watched them make idiots out of themselves. Fenris shook his head and poured himself another drink, but he looked more amused than annoyed. Zevran was tapping his fingers to the beat cheerfully as he took the bottle from Fenris.

As they wound down the song’s last notes, Varric soon stood up and began paging through the machine’s catalogue himself. “Hey, kid! Come help me choose something!” he called.

Alistair shook his head frantically. “Oh, no. Singing and me? Bad when combined.”

“Here, let me help.” Zevran stood with a drink in his hand. He winked at Naia as he approached the stage. “Perhaps we could entice Ms. Tabris into a duet?”

“Only if Juliet sings too,” Naia said immediately.

Juliet groaned. “Come on. I already did one.”

“Sure, you did one.” Naia shook a playful finger at her. “But you’ve got years of not singing at all to make up for. One’s not going to cut it tonight, Juliet Hawke.”

With a sigh and a smile, Juliet let herself be pulled forward to debate their next number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!! This is the longest thing I've ever written, and my first fic that wasn't almost totally canon-compliant. If you left kudos and page hits, please know it meant the world to me.
> 
> Thank you especially to everyone who's commented on this story. Aesir23, bohemiantea, Ceyanna, EllenEmbee, FauxtonRae, GirAwesome43, goddess_eris, infinitebees, InyrilJace, jena13, Kagetsukai, Katranga, Lost_space, MadamSnark, mcizzle, MeetMeInThePit (Gil_Galads), mortuarymonstrosity, morwen_re, Nomadka2011, sirinial, TMinor: Every single comment on a chapter made my day and then some. You guys rock!!


	30. Bonus Material

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teaser for the sequel, casting notes, and a few more goofy bonus materials! Think of this as the fic's appendix.

**Casting Notes**

  
**Naia Tabris: Beth Riesgraf** , best known as Parker from Leverage.

(Naia's a redhead, but Riesgraf's ability to mix cheerful optimism with insane recklessness is perfect, and that's what hair dye is for.)

 

 **Juliet Hawke: Rosario Dawson** , sexy and confident and cool as hell.

 

 **Max Trevelyan: Mike Colter** , gorgeous and charismatic and just the right amount of sweet.

 

 **Mei Surana: Claudia Kim** , best known as Helen Cho from the Marvel movies. 

Mei's story is the one I'm most excited to tell in the sequel, which brings us to a little teaser for the sequel! I'm working on plotting it out and it will likely be a month or so before anything more posts, but I'm pretty confident this will be the opening scene.

 

* * *

 

_**Denerim Siege: Chapter 1** _

__

Mei watched steam rise from the little pitcher of milk in the machine. She breathed in and out, forcing herself to be patient, though she knew that a little twist of fire magic could accomplish this task much more efficiently.

_ Not worth getting arrested,  _ she reminded herself.  _ Not worth going back to the Circle. Definitely not worth being made Tranquil. _

After what seemed like an eternity, the milk was heated and foamed. Mei poured it carefully into a pair of tall mugs, added the coffee, and set the lattes on a little tray to take to the couple in the corner. The customers were both humans—not unusual for this neighborhood—and seemed to be on a first date that was going well. Conversation flowed easily between them and they both smiled a lot. Mei felt a twinge of envy as she watched the two women take each other in, recognizing that flicker of hope and attraction and exhilaration that came with a new relationship.

Maybe she would be ready for that again one day. When she stopped fantasizing about Cullen walking through the door of Three Nugs Coffee, miraculously healed and whole and still in love with her.

“Here you are,” she said quietly, sliding the drinks off the tray.

The two women didn’t respond—not that Mei expected they would.

“What do you make of that business at the Circle?” the blonde woman asked her date.

“Oof. That’s what nightmares are made of,” the second woman responded, shaking her cloud of dark curls. “I’ve always felt sorry for mages. But maybe Councilwoman Stannard is right. Maybe they all need to be in a Circle. What if they’d been living right next to us when they turned into abominations?”

For a moment, Mei hoped that would be the end of the date—this was a controversial topic in Denerim—but the blonde woman sighed. “It does make you wonder.”

Since there was no one else in the coffee shop, Mei allowed herself an ugly, annoyed scowl before returning to her post behind the counter of the little six-table coffee shop.  _ If it weren’t for the Circles, there wouldn’t have been so many mages signing up to join Uldred. And he wouldn’t have had a ready supply of unwilling converts trapped in a prison for him.   _

When she’d first left the Circle she had been shocked to realize how little the average Denerim citizen knew about Circles and mages and Templars. It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it irked her all the same—especially when people insisted on having opinions about the events that had resulted in her unceremonious transformation from Enchanter to barista. 

To work off her irritation, Mei buried herself in cleaning her station—it was always covered in coffee grounds, no matter how neat she thought she was being—until a  _ thump  _ on one of the bar stools at the counter made her turn around.

“Whiskey,” the customer groaned, his head resting on his arms. “All the whiskey you’ve got.”

“That would be zero whiskey. This is a coffee shop, Max. We’ve covered this before.” Mei felt her mouth curve in a smile.

“Oh. Damn.” Agent Max Trevelyan, Knight-Captain of the Denerim Templars, raised his head. “Can I have something with a lot of sugar, then? One of those drinks that’s mostly whipped cream and sprinkles?”

“Coming right up.” Mei poured another pitcher of milk and put it in the machine to foam. “Was it really that bad?”

“Maker. I thought Meredith Stannard was scary when I lived in a Circle with her. Behind a Council desk she’s a menace. The hearing was four hours of her spitting at us and grandstanding about how incompetent the Templars are.” Max ran a hand over his face. “I think she even had Cassandra sweating.”

“Agent Pentaghast is still in town?” Mei’s eyebrows rose.

“I think she’s going to be sticking around until the Templar leadership decides what to do with Greagoir. They’re pissed at all of us for not noticing what Uldred was up to, but Greagoir ranks highest. He’d make the best scapegoat.” Max pulled a face. “Oh. And they ‘encouraged’ Irving to step down. His replacement arrives tomorrow from Halamshiral. A Senior Enchanter named Vivienne de Fer.”

Mei burst out laughing.

Max raised his eyebrows. “That can’t be good.”

“I’m sorry,” Mei said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just—oh. I met her several times when I was in Orlais. Vivienne thinks Ferelden is a stinking backwater that just discovered fire. I can’t believe she took the job.” Then she sobered. “Wait. Yes, I can. She’s got her eyes on Fiona’s seat. She can’t run unless she’s a First Enchanter.” Vivienne would have taken a position in Hell itself if it meant an opportunity to ascend to the Grand Enchanter’s office in Montsimmard.

“My father thinks she’s a ‘smart, reliable choice.’” Max’s tone suggested he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. 

Mei nodded as she began preparing Max’s drink. “Vivienne is the anti-Fiona. Pro-Templar, pro-Circle.” She didn’t much like the future First Enchanter, but honesty compelled her to add, “With Meredith chomping at the bit to make big changes in Denerim, she could be an asset. No one plays politics like Madame de Fer.”

“I’m not sure I’d describe what Meredith does as ‘playing politics.’ That woman is not playing at anything. My head’s going to hurt for weeks.” But Max perked up when Mei set a wide mug in front of him. The cup was piled high with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. Underneath was a mix of milk, chocolate syrup, and a tiny bit of coffee. It was, she knew, Max’s favorite thing on the Three Nugs menu. 

As she watched him smile and take the first sip, she wrestled with her desire to ask about Cullen. It felt intrusive, somehow, to be discussing her former lover behind his back. But Maker, she wanted to know.

Max, perhaps sensing her indecision, saved her the dilemma by answering the question before his third sip. “Cullen seems to be doing well. The medics cleared him to return to duty.”

“But?” Mei prompted, sensing hesitation in his words.

“He’s … not his old self.” Max grimaced and set down the cup. “That sounds stupid. I mean, how could he be? But he’s even more rule-bound and duty-oriented than he was before the crisis. Quicker to snap, harsher when the recruits fail. I don’t think he’s sleeping well. I’ve been meeting him for workouts at five-thirty in the morning, and he’s usually already there and drenched in sweat when I walk in.”

“Give him time,” Mei said gently, as much to herself as to Max. “He’s lucky you’re there for him.”

Max used his spoon to poke the whipped cream a bit. “I hope so.” He looked over at her. “And how are  _ you _ ?”

That was a complicated question. 

For the first month after she’d left the Circle, Mei had been completely focused on just surviving day to day. She’d moved into a shelter operated by a tough, principled elf named Shianni. A week later, Shianni’s cousin Soris had passed along a tip about a job at Three Nugs. A week after that, Mei had her first paycheck and her first apartment. She’d spent the next month terrified of screwing up every order, often double- and triple-checking her tickets to make sure no one got a mocha instead of an espresso, sure that she’d be fired if she failed. But that fear had faded, and now she barely glanced at the tickets a second time.

She had expected to feel a sense of accomplishment when she settled into a routine. But instead, she was restless and unsure of her next step. As grateful as she was for this job, she knew it could not be her future. But she had no idea what kind of future might be possible for an ex-Enchanter who would be arrested if she used her magic in public, and she had no idea how to begin figuring it out.

But that seemed like a lot to lay on Max, so instead she said, “I’ve been good.”

 

* * *

 

And, if you were hoping for Naia/Zevran, I've got good news. I posted a little 800-word fic on my Tumblr featuring the two of them several months after the events of Denerim Confidential.

Why didn't I post it here? Um. Well. It's pretty much smut and I was too lazy to change this fic's rating.

Check it out here, if you are so inclined: <https://naiatabris.tumblr.com/post/162922296407/sexlaughterhonesty-week>

 

Thanks again for reading, and stay tuned for Part II!

 


	31. The sequel is up!

The title says it all: "Denerim Siege" is now live and updating Tuesdays (knock on wood!). 

Find it at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11945574/chapters/27005964


End file.
